


groundwork days

by Nonymos



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Breda POV, Canon Compliant, Did You Guys Know Amestris Was A Dictatorship?, Havoc POV, M/M, Mustang's Team, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Wow They Sure Tend To Wage War A Lot, heymans breda thinks too many thoughts, jean havoc thinks just the right amount of thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: After the Ishbalan civil war, Roy Mustang starts assembling a squad.
Relationships: Heymans Breda & Edward Elric, Heymans Breda & Vato Falman & Kain Fuery & Jean Havoc & Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Heymans Breda/Jean Havoc, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 576
Kudos: 342





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentwalrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus/gifts).



> FMA is a masterpiece and I don't usually write fic for media I wholeheartedly love, but I've always wondered exactly how Mustang had built his East City team. So, in honor of the ten thousand other projects I should be working on (chad, this is YOUR FAULT, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT), this is that story.

Heymans Breda knows Roy Mustang isn’t as dumb as he seems, if only because Mustang apparently noticed _Breda's_ not as dumb as he seems.

In fact, the Hero of Ishbal seems to have an uncanny knack for spotting valuable people operating under an obfuscating crust of unremarkability, and _those_ people seem to have a tendency to magically end up under Mustang’s command. East City isn’t Central by any means, but they have eight years of civil war aftermath to deal with, meaning HQ’s busy and layered and densely bureaucratic with a high turnover rate; people coming and going between squads is a common enough occurrence that it doesn’t usually raise any eyebrows. But Breda’s eyebrows are extremely well-raised.

There was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Kain Fuery, so charmingly enthusiastic that he seemed to have wandered into the army by mistake. There was Vato Falman, an overly formal, painfully intellectual man rumored to be a narcoleptic. There was dumb country boy Jean Havoc, too naive to really take advantage of the hierarchy, simple-minded enough to be happy with grunt work even as an officer. All three of them finding themselves in Mustang’s largely decorative squad, a bunch of black sheep penned up together under the command of an embarrassingly vapid war hero.

The thing is that if you take the time to talk to people—which Breda does _all the time_ , even though people don’t notice that about him, since he doesn’t smile a lot—you might know that Fuery is a communications expert with an encryption hobby, Falman has a literal goddamn eidetic memory and Havoc—well, Havoc is less obvious, but just as valuable if not more.

So when he gets his transfer orders, Breda can’t help being begrudgingly flattered.

He’s not sure what he did to attract Mustang’s attention, other than graduating at the top of his class, a fact everyone else immediately forgot—nobody actually cares how _well_ you did at the military academy as long as you graduated. He’s been lying low since then, playing up the meathead stereotype; a fat man can go unnoticed wherever he wishes.

He’s not sure, either, what Mustang actually wants with them all. Is he just collecting people for his own amusement, or is there a deeper intent here? He may have noticed Breda doesn’t quite believe all the rumors painting him as an empty-headed darling of the state. If that’s why he requested the transfer, there’s no telling how he might treat Breda now. The only real, factual thing Breda knows about the man is that he’s killed literal thousands of people.

All the same, Breda’s a soldier, and he’s got his orders. So he goes.

He’s welcomed by Mustang’s second-in-command First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, because of course Mustang’s out of the office on transparently personal business. After five minutes talking to her, Breda is more convinced than ever that Mustang’s playing everyone in East City HQ, because there is _no way_ someone like Hawkeye would remain by Mustang’s side if he was even half as bad as they say. She doesn’t even bother to disguise her competence, because of course she’s a war hero too, meaning she needs no pretext to be faithful to Mustang; it makes sense to lump them both together, even though high command probably considers it a waste of her talents.

Breda only actually meets the man himself the next day, when he walks into the break room to get a cup of coffee. It’s so pointedly empty he can’t help but assume it’s on purpose; and just a minute later, Mustang walks in too. Breda would have diagnosed himself as paranoid a long time ago if he didn’t keep being so consistently right.

“Lieutenant Breda,” Mustang smiles. “We didn’t cross paths yesterday. Welcome to the team.”

“Colonel.” Breda salutes.

Mustang’s four years younger than Breda, but he looks ten years younger with his close-shaved face and delicate features. He’s in full dress uniform, well-pressed, crisp and clean; no gloves on his hands, of course. This is peacetime. In a normal crowd his relaxed demeanor might not stand out, but in a military setting it’s almost bizarre. People here are trained to snap at attention at the slightest provocation, and it usually shows in the line of their shoulders, but Mustang mostly reminds Breda of a content cat slinking his way to the next sunny spot. Maybe that’s the kind of confidence that comes with being a State Alchemist.

“Where is everyone?” Mustang asks.

“Don’t know for sure, sir.”

“Oh well. Hawkeye must have sent them away on some errand or another. Funny how everyone always finds something to do.”

“Funny, sir?”

“This is East City, Breda.” Yes, East City with the Ishbal war only a year behind them, and more than enough grueling work to go around, but Breda doesn’t bother to object. They both know better.

“I know _I_ always find myself with too much time on my hands,” Mustang continues, thus speaking the pile of paperwork on his desk into nonexistence. His eyes are drifting around the room. “I forgot there was a chess board in here. Fancy a game?”

“If you like, sir.”

They sit down and Mustang shakes out the pieces. He doesn’t make Breda choose, just takes the black pieces for himself. Breda takes the white pieces without comment and starts setting them on the board.

“Should I lose?” he asks in a neutral voice.

Mustang looks up briefly, a sharp flash of black eyes. Then he’s smiling again. “Please do try your best to beat me.”

“Yessir.” The pieces are set. Breda opens with Scholar’s Mate. Mustang falls into the trap so readily it has to be on purpose, and three moves later, he’s beaten. “There you go.”

Mustang blinks at the board.

Breda just sits there, looking bored. He’s excellent at looking bored, and low-key annoyed, and overall unfriendly. Sure, he actually has a good rapport with most people in East City HQ, but that’s because _he_ made carefully planned overtures in his own time, on his own terms. The only one who’s ever befriended him first was Jean Havoc at the military academy, but that’s because Havoc gets along with _everyone._

Mustang sets the pieces back. “Impressive, Breda.”

“Not really,” Breda tells him. “That was a very basic overture.”

He’s on the lookout for a sign of annoyance, but Mustang just keeps smiling. “Let’s try again. I still have a bit of time to kill.”

Breda actually did have work of his own, but this is a direct order from a superior officer, and he’s almost entirely certain that _this_ is his real job interview. For what exactly, he’s not sure. Since he doesn’t know where Mustang’s getting at, he’ll keep playing it Scholar style, waiting for his opponent to come forward and trap himself. And he’ll keep winning if he can; sure, he generally prefers to be underestimated, but when push comes to shove, well. His intelligence is no state secret.

He opens the same way again and this time Mustang sees it coming—even someone who wants to play dumb wouldn’t play _that_ dumb. They fall into the quiet pace of the game, both of them taking a few minutes to play every time. Breda wins in seventeen moves.

“Again,” Mustang says.

They play again. Breda wins in eleven moves.

“Again,” Mustang says, smiling.

His smile doesn’t leave him the whole time, and doesn’t even look forced. When they finally stop, they’ve played twenty-three games, most of them quite short, and Breda’s won them all. Mustang pushes back from the table and stands up, giving Breda his hand to shake. “Thank you, lieutenant. That was eye-opening.”

Breda has… no idea what this means.

Sure, he’s won all his games, but—he didn’t even have to play _that_ well. In fact, after the fifth match, he started doing case studies to entertain himself, meaning he played like a crazy person and _still_ never came close to losing. Could he lose both his knights on purpose and still win? Yes. Could he win without ever losing a single pawn? Yes. How about losing his queen right off the bat and still winning, could he recover from that? Also yes.

And yet Mustang acted so satisfied the whole time. Was that supposed to mean he was losing on purpose? But he has _some_ chess sense—and at times he played moves that made it seem like he was actually trying to win. It just feels like he’s a genuinely abysmal player who’s now trying to save face by implying he totally pulled a fast one on Breda. And yes, Breda _is_ completely baffled, but this doesn’t feel like he was ensnared by a superior mind; rather like a five-year-old talked gibberish at him and then smashed the board out of his hands before running out of the room shouting his victory.

A terrible doubt comes over him. Could Mustang _actually_ be an idiot?

*

Havoc’s working in the sun, digging a shovel into the roadside, his black shirt clinging with sweat. Even breathless with effort, he’s joking around with the people around him like he’s not their superior officer. Upon seeing Breda approach, he waves and straightens up; the rest of his squad immediately takes this as a cue to go on break, with visible expressions of relief. It’s not that he won’t let them rest; it’s that they don’t dare to work less hard than he does.

Havoc, being On A Break, immediately gets out a cigarette in a gesture so familiar Breda hardly even notices it anymore. “They want me back at HQ or somethin’?” he says, flicking his lighter.

“No, I’m on break too,” Breda says. He’s been on break all afternoon by this point. “I just met Mustang.”

“Aw,” Havoc says companionably as he lights his cigarette. “What’d he do to you?”

“I’m not sure. He asked me to play chess with him.”

“Yeah,” Havoc says. He blows out smoke. “He probably wanted to see how you played.”

 _Better than him_ , Breda wants to say. _Wasn’t that clear by game three?_ But he just shrugs. “You’ve been serving with him for a while now. Is he a good boss?”

“Had worse.”

Breda’s suddenly glad Havoc’s in this with him, more solid than ever. This is what makes him invaluable, this willingness to take things as they come. He doesn’t have Falman’s terrifying memory or Fuery’s genius. He’s not constantly calculating moves in his head like Breda; he’s not a war hero, he’s not a State Alchemist. But he’s something else.

It took Breda a few years to even figure it out. By the time they graduated from the academy, it had really hit him. Even the most grueling weeks of boot camp didn’t seem to faze Havoc much; sure, he complained with everyone else when they had to get up at three in the morning for a few laps around the compound, but he had no trouble falling asleep standing up whenever he had the chance, and so he never reached the depths of exhaustion to which some people sank. There was no breaking point, no gritted teeth, no hard-won transition into a full soldier, just a gentle floating from one state to the next. Breda might have graduated with full honors, but even he had his weak spot. (K-9 units.) Havoc was never brilliant but he got by—and he got by in _every single class_ , a solid passing grade without fail, every time, none of the highs and lows of everyone else. He’s a decent marksman, a decent strategist, a decent athlete. He’s baseline decent. He’s not extremely good at anything; but he’s good enough at _everything._

Which makes him a hell of a military asset, but it doesn’t stop here—the same goes for his social life. Havoc never lasts long with a girl but he’s always quick to find a new one. He doesn’t seem to have intimate friends, but he has a _lot_ of friendly acquaintances. Breda would have probably ended up drifting away from him too if he hadn’t paid attention and _noticed_. And now it seems Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang’s noticed, too.

But Havoc seems relaxed under the man’s command. Sure, he’s too quick to trust for Breda’s liking, but his instincts haven’t steered him wrong so far. Whenever Breda’s mind fails him, he likes to think he can rely on Havoc’s gut.

“Ever seen him do the—” Breda snaps his fingers a few times.

Havoc draws on his cigarette. He always looks perfectly content when he’s smoking, a smile in the corner of his mouth, his blue eyes slightly hooded. “Yeah. You will too. He doesn’t want his squad to be taken off-guard so he makes us do drills while he blows shit up, sometimes.”

“Sensible,” Breda says flatly.

Havoc grins. “Flashy.”

*

Mustang more or less vanishes following that day. The chessboard in the break room gathers dust until Officer Falman notices Breda eyeing it and proposes a game. He’s skinny where Breda’s fat, too rigid where Breda’s too slouchy, eager to please where Breda’s cultivating his on-demand antipathy. In a way, though, they’re exactly the same: unimpressive, unremarkable, easily dismissed.

When Falman beats him in fourteen moves Breda can’t help but grin.

“Classic Aerugan defense,” he says. “Well played.”

Falman hesitates, then smiles too. “When you started improvising mid-game I was in real difficulty for a while.”

“Feels to me like you recovered very easily.”

“Only after I realized you were doing an alternate version of the Cretan Play.” He starts resetting the board, punctiliously.

Breda leans back against his chair, folding his arms. “Did you memorize the entire chess books?”

“It passes the time.”

Falman looks naturally sleepy and absent, but Breda doesn’t think he’s a narcoleptic. In fact, now that he’s spent a whole week in Mustang’s squad, he can’t remember a single occurrence of Falman slacking off even in the smallest ways. And sure, he’s got twig arms and looks like he doesn’t know where to find the trigger on a gun; but he just obliterated Breda without hesitation.

“Can’t keep busy enough?” Breda asks.

“No, I can, of course I can,” Falman amends mildly. “I’m keeping the KIA rosters up to date. There are still lots of families waiting for their sons and daughters’ bodies to be retrieved from the field.”

Breda can see how he might want a distraction from that. “Let’s play again. I’ll kick your ass this time.”

And he does, because Falman all but told him how to beat him—improvisation is key. By playing a bit wildly Breda gets the win, though not an easy one by any means. They’re kind of complementary, Breda with his constantly churning mind, Falman with his staggering memory…

Havoc with his instincts.

And Hawkeye and Fuery with their easy competence, their practical knowledge.

Breda presses his lips into a thin line. No, he _really_ doesn’t think Mustang’s just collecting them for fun. But he’s not sure whether they’re being set up on the board for a big win or messy losses.

Figuring it out won’t easy, because as their absurd chess tournament showed, Mustang could just as easily be a genius or a moron. And for someone like Breda, who tends to overestimate his opponents by ascribing them the tactics _he_ would deploy in their place, thus wasting his energy analyzing completely brainless moves, this is a surefire trap.

*

“Why did you get in the army, Fuery?” Breda asks, looking up at the kid who strapped himself at the top of a telephone pole.

“I don’t know, same as everyone, I guess.” Fuery shifts his weight in his climbing harness and looks down at him. “Power on?”

Breda obliges and Fuery frowns, looking down at the power meter he’s connected to the line. “Still not working. Ugh! Okay, power back off, please.”

He slides down the pole, unstraps himself and picks up his toolbox; Breda grabs the portable generator and they make their way to the next pole, walking around a large crater with singed edges. This area’s been shelled into a pulp; almost a year later and nothing’s grown back.

Fuery drops his toolbox next to another pole, his seventh that day. Turns out telephone lines function much the same as fairy lights; when the whole thing stops working you’ve got to check the bulbs one by one, except in that case the bulbs are fifteen meters tall. Fuery straps himself again and ascends easily with his steel-cleat boots.

“What do you mean, same as everyone?” Breda asks once Fuery’s reached the top. He’ll get a crick in the neck if this goes on for much longer.

“I don’t know, just looking for a solid job. Electrical engineering suits me okay.”

“But you’re in Mustang’s squad.”

Fuery looks down at him again with those innocent, curious eyes. “So what?”

Breda stops himself from saying _I don’t know, just asking._ “I guess I expected something different when I got my transfer orders. Actual military operations, not the Hero of Ishbal overseeing the same boring shit as everyone else.”

“Oh, I think he’s had enough of the war,” Fuery says, nailing the cable into place. “It’s been tough on him, you know.”

 _Yeah, poor guy_ , Breda thinks but doesn’t say. He shakes off the memory of red skies long past dawn. “So would you say he’s a good peacetime CO?”

“Lieutenant Hawkeye is our CO, really. Colonel Mustang isn’t very hands-on.”

“You don’t find that frustrating?”

“I don’t know, he just trusts us to do the right thing, I guess.” He reconnects his power meter. “Okay, power on—ah! It’s working now.”

*

Breda sends most of his pay to his mother, so all he can rent is a small dingy apartment near East City Station, and he doesn’t have people over very often. Or ever. Havoc’s the exception, as always; he genuinely doesn’t care if he’s invited to a windowless basement as long as he finds friendly people there, and a decent supply of beer doesn’t hurt either.

“Hey,” he says when Breda opens the door. His hair seems flatter than usual, his smile’s a bit forced and his cigarette’s drooping, which can only mean one thing.

“Did Babette dump you?”

Havoc hangs his head. “Yeah.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea,” Breda answers, which isn’t an empty platitude when it comes to Havoc; he’s just so damn likeable it’s almost certain he’ll have another girl on his arm by the end of the week. “Come in, let’s cheer you up.”

Twenty minutes later, after a steady string of “Yeah, man” and “Her loss” and “You’ll bounce back”, Havoc does seem a bit cheered, enough to look at Breda and ask, “Hey, what about you? Need me to hook you up on a date?”

“Don’t have much time for that stuff,” Breda says, truthfully. When his libido gets too distracting, he just saves some of his pay for a trip to Monsieur’s Brothel at the far end of East City. They’re always happy to see him, because he’s a reliable customer who minds his manners, states exactly what he wants and pays in advance.

Havoc pats his back. “We’ll find you a girl sometime, you’ll see.”

Breda has no idea why he lets Havoc believe he has any interest in women, but he’d rather not examine his own motives too deeply. It just hasn’t come up, and since he only has room in his life for paid partnerships, anyway, it's a waste of time to discuss it at all.

Havoc cracks his neck and winces, which lets Breda change the subject. “Still doing roadwork?”

“Oh, it’s not exactly roadwork.” Havoc mindlessly gets out a cigarette, having apparently forgotten again that Breda doesn’t want him to smoke inside; Breda takes it out of his mouth and he hardly seems to notice. “It’s going to be one of five funeral repositories.”

Breda just looks at him. Havoc’s eyes flick at him, then away; there’s no real expression on his face. “If we’re going to rehabilitate the land, there’s old bodies to be disposed of first. Gotta sweep the whole area.”

“I see,” Breda says.

Havoc shrugs, blue eyes vague. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

*

Yeah. Someone’s gotta do it.

Such as Havoc, overseeing mass graves. Such as Fuery, reestablishing blown-up communication lines in the most mangled parts of the countryside. Such as Falman, who patiently spends his days compiling rosters of dead people to identify them by process of elimination, and who’ll remember _every single one of them._

This is a warzone, or it used to be. Who in East City doesn’t have a head full of death? But other squads deal with city administration; other squads supervise new bridges or new roads or new neighborhoods; other squads are facing the future, stretching west into the virgin countryside, leaving the war behind them. Mustang’s squad is the cleanup squad, getting their faces shoved in their own mess a little more every day. Mustang isn’t _hands-on_ , Mustang doesn’t really care whether they do a good job or not; he just wants to _see them play._ Again and again and again, setting up the board; strings of names, graves, death. Relentless exhibition of broken down terrain, torn-up lives.

Until they reveal themselves, maybe? Until they start whispering _I can’t stand this for much longer_ the way Lieutenant Colonel Himelstein did once, talking to herself in the mirror, the day Breda overheard her?

There’s only one person left in the squad who may have all the answers, and that’s Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, the one who chose to be there. But Breda’s wary of her. For all he knows, Mustang is really a puppet and she’s the one pulling the strings. She was the youngest sniper on the field; her head count is second only to the State Alchemists’. They say she could distinguish between friend and foe even in the confusion of fire and explosions, in the worst days of the war. Can she see through Breda as well?

_Why did you get into the army?_

Breda asked Fuery because he was just a kid. He didn’t ask Havoc, because he already knows Havoc. He didn’t ask Falman, because Falman might have asked him right back.

They all have the same answer, anyway: _same as everyone, I guess._ For a good job, for good pay, you get in the army. Civilian work is for the dropouts, the losers, the ones who couldn’t cut it at the academy.

“Lieutenant Breda,” Hawkeye asks.

He can’t help tensing up. She must have noticed it. His refuge, as always, is an unfriendly look coupled with utilitarian politeness. “Lieutenant Hawkeye.”

She hands him a piece of paper. “Please be at the train station at 3pm. We’re getting visitors from Central. You’re to escort them back here to Colonel Mustang’s office.”

“Yessir.” He takes the paper with their names and folds it up.

Hawkeye’s still at his desk. “Are you enjoying yourself here, Lieutenant Breda?”

“Yessir.”

“Remind me, whose squad did you used to be in?”

This time it’s an actual chill down his back. He tries to ignore it. “Himelstein’s.”

“Right.”

“Right,” he echoes. He puts the paper in his pocket and stands. “I’ll go request a car.”

*

The men at the train station wear dark clothes and stony faces. They both sit in the back while he drives them to HQ, and they ask him why he got in the army. _Same as everyone_ , he answers. What squad are you in, lieutenant? _Mustang’s._ Oh, the Hero of Ishbal. Then what squad did you _used_ to be in?

“Himelstein’s,” Breda says for the second time that day, and he doesn’t miss their quick glance at each other in the rear view. His hands tighten involuntarily on the wheel.

Maybe Mustang’s squad really _isn’t_ just for collecting people.

Stupidly, Breda thinks about Havoc. He doesn’t want anything to happen to Havoc. He doesn’t want anything to happen to Falman and Fuery, at that. All three of them aren’t even—they’re just decent people trying to do the job they’ve been given, but apparently that was enough for them to be put under a microscope, made to study the banality of death, again and again in black and white until they finally have enough and start doing crazy, dangerous things if only to escape the grinding monotony of victory, just so much evidence of relentless _victory_ , craters with singed edges and countless bodies under red burning skies—

Stop, Breda tells himself. Stop. You’re spiraling.

He’s thinking twelve moves ahead, digging plenty of holes for himself, anticipating several different conflicting disasters before any of them ever hints at existing. He has to be more like Havoc. He has to take things as they come, at face value. He was supposed to escort these men from Central and he’s escorting them. They’re asking him questions and he’s answering them. So what if he was in Himelstein’s squad? Plenty of people were. Plenty of people are in her squad right now.

He parks in front of HQ and escorts the two men to Mustang’s office. Surprisingly—or maybe not—the man himself is there, in his usual dress uniform with his usual smile, except this time he’s wearing white gloves embroidered in red.

Breda can’t help but look at them for a second too long, and when he looks up it’s to find Mustang’s dark eyes on him. Then Mustang’s looking at the Central officers and it’s like that moment didn’t even happen.

“Gentlemen,” he says, to which they answer “Colonel,” and salute. “How may I assist you?”

Breda salutes too, which no one notices, and leaves. Three steps down the hallway, he comes across Hawkeye who falls into step with him. “No problems on the road?”

“Full of potholes. Kind of rich considering we’ve been overhauling the whole area for months.”

“Yes, we’re so busy fixing other problems we forget the ones closest to us,” Hawkeye says placidly. “I’ll make a memo.”

Breda jerks his chin towards Mustang’s office. “Aren’t you going in there? He’ll be lost without you.”

“The Colonel knows what he’s doing, I’m sure.” Her eyes briefly meet his; they’re light brown, unremarkable until the light hits them as they pass a window and they turn a bright piercing hazel. A blink later, it’s over. “Better leave him to it.”

“Understood.”

*

But the thing is that Breda hasn’t _understood_ , not for certain _._ He doesn’t know what to think, whether he should be worried or indifferent. What should he do? Going directly to Lieutenant Colonel Jolia Himelstein is out of the question; if he never talks to her again it still won’t be enough. Asking around for information is risky at the best of times. He needs centralized intel, delivered quickly and for his ears only.

So he goes to Falman.

The man’s at his desk, still compiling his lists of dead people. When he comes across a body that’s been reliably identified as Ishbalan, he makes a little check mark in the margin and stops investigating their identity. Upon hearing Breda’s knock on his doorframe, he looks up, and if he seems a little drawn, a little soul-weary, then what of it? He always looks tired, with his prematurely greying hair. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Mustang’s in a meeting,” Breda tells him. “Two sharks from Central.”

“First Lieutenant Mens Forveilles and Second Lieutenant Ilya Dietrich,” Falman answers instantly. There’s no telling how he even knows that. “Central Bureau of Investigations.”

Yeah, that clinches it. “Any idea why they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

He looks just a little perplexed by this sudden interrogation, but otherwise unperturbed. Just another day at the office. Breda must remember that Falman’s mind works in straight lines, neat squares. If he really has no idea what this might be about, then better not to involve him.

“Hey, Falman, just curious. Whose squad did you used to be in?”

Falman blinks slowly. “Katrin’s.”

“How about Fuery?”

“Mustang was his first command. Why?”

“Just curious,” Breda repeats before leaving.

Of all of them, he’s the only one who used to be with Himelstein. Maybe he really _is_ being paranoid, for once. He’s built this entire theory out of nothing at all; a string of weirdly bad chess games with his CO, monotonous if morbid work, two officers from Central making small talk, and there he goes losing his marbles. He really does think too much.

*

Forveilles and Dietrich don’t leave the next day. Or the day after that. They walk around HQ like a pair of crows in their slightly darker uniforms, and people get used to them quickly as a new feature of their environment, even though nobody actually knows what they’re _doing_ here. The average soldier doesn’t ask questions.

Breda wants to talk about them with Himelstein so bad he can taste it, but this feels like the worst idea in the world. One time he finds himself behind her in line at the mess, and his eyes damn near drill a hole into the back of her head, but she doesn’t acknowledge him beyond a single polite nod when she leaves to find a table. Does she seem tense? Are her hands gripping her tray a bit too hard? He honestly can’t tell anymore; he’s thinking so many thoughts, constructing so many theories they’re contradicting each other, leaving him empty.

Nothing bad’s happened. Nothing’s happened at _all._ This is East City, nothing to see here. Part of him thinks that one day he’ll come into HQ and Forveilles and Dietrich will be gone, and he’ll feel like a very relieved fool.

*

The next day, Havoc mentions they’ve interrogated him.

“They _what,”_ Breda hisses, already dragging him outside. “Why?”

Havoc looks mildly surprised but never says no to a smoke break; he follows Breda in the chilly autumn sun and leans against the brick of the building. “I’m not sure. They said it was a routine check.”

“But what did they ask?”

Havoc gets out a cigarette then pats his pockets. “Shit, I left my lighter inside.”

“Here,” Breda says impatiently, getting out his own.

Havoc touches his cigarette to the small, trembling flame. “How come you carry one, anyway? You don’t smoke.”

“Comes in handy.” He snaps it shut. The real reason is that Havoc kept asking if he’d got a light. “Tell me about Forveilles and Dietrich.”

“They wanted to know about the squad. How we all got on under Mustang’s command. I told them he was being a bit unprofessional, sometimes, with the ladies and everything, but really we haven’t had any problems.”

Yeah, Mustang the ladies’ man, another one for the ages. Breda’s got an _actual_ ladies’ man in front of him right now and they’re nothing alike.

“Did they ask about Himelstein,” Breda says.

He would have _never_ asked anyone else this. Havoc draws on his cigarette. “Yeah,” he says. His blue eyes track Breda’s. “But you’re clean. Right?”

And people think Havoc is slow.

Breda fights for control of his face and his stomach. “I will be.”

*

He goes home to his small apartment on foot, walking too fast, anxiety buzzing in his veins. This is stupid, he admonishes himself. They’re not onto _you._ And even if they _are_ onto Himelstein, they might fire her with prejudice but it would be idiotic for _all_ of her subordinates—past and present—to share that fate. It would deplete a fifth of HQ. This is East City. Eight years of a bloody, brutal civil war. Of course some people still mumble against it. That’s not worth mass investigations.

Unless of course—he can’t keep the thought away—Mustang and Hawkeye’s role is to preselect potential dissenters, isolate them in the same petri dish, throw upsetting work at them to see what happens. It would make sense, considering their background—

But this theory, Breda tells himself for the fiftieth time since he joined the squad, _holds no goddamn water._ Is Falman a dissenter, just for looking sad while counting bodies? Is _Fuery_ a dissenter, just for laying eyes on a ruined land? Is _Havoc_ a dissenter, just for wishing he weren’t digging graves? Hell, Breda himself has never done anything, barely even said anything. He has no reason to be mad; he hasn’t lost anybody in the war. He wasn’t even displaced, not even with the battlefield so close to his family’s house. _We’re winning_ , the radio kept saying. _No need to evacuate. We’re winning._ Twenty-three days of red skies and distant screams carried by the wind. The dead Ishbalan child by the road one day, sudden and terrible like a bird killing itself against his bedroom window.

They _were_ winning. They did win. His mother buried the child by the road where he fell; here’s one who won’t appear on Falman’s careful lists. At night Breda still has dreams of going to the Ishbalan market for honey-glazed kayatef. He’s never forgotten how it tasted, how one day they abruptly stopped going.

_Why did you get into the army?_

Because he couldn’t _not._ What was he supposed to do, not get involved?

He’s here, now, he’s involved, he knows a lot more than he used to, he’s older and wiser, and yet he still doesn’t know where to start, where to go from here. His conversations with Himelstein were a nice thought exercise but never developed into something more. They were so few and far between over the year he spent under her command, anyway. It’s all safely encapsulated inside his head, his thick meathead, who would look at him twice, who could possibly imagine what’s going on in there? Is he a dissenter, just for winning at chess? Nothing’s _happened_ to him or his family, nothing that’d make him suspicious. Just the war, in general.

_Same as everyone, I guess._

He still has the book, of course. He didn’t want to throw it away, because then there really would be no tangible proof of his attempts at contestation: it would be like he really has done nothing. But it’s under his mattress, in his dingy little place where nobody ever comes except for Havoc, and Havoc only saw it once, barely even had time to read the title, and that was eighteen months ago and he hasn’t mentioned it since, probably hasn’t noticed.

Of course it’s okay. Of course it’s _okay,_ Breda tells himself, crossing the road, puffing in the cold air. He’ll get rid of the book right now and that way he can stop _thinking_ about all this. He hasn’t done anything. For all that he’s thought and thought and thought about it, he hasn’t ever truly done anything—

He climbs up the stairs, gets out his keys. The light goes off, and he punches the button again, mumbling a curse as he unlocks the door.

Roy Mustang is standing in the middle of his apartment.

*

“Colonel,” Breda says, divesting himself of his coat and closing the door.

He doesn’t ask how Mustang got in. It’s procedure to leave a key to your apartment with HQ. Mustang’s wearing his great black coat. Underneath, he’s in civilian clothes, a white shirt with braces under a maroon vest, black trousers, polished dress shoes.

And his gloves on.

“You don’t seem surprised, Breda,” he says.

“I’m not.”

Breda really _wishes_ he were just paranoid.

“You should be. Innocents usually are.” Mustang picks up something on the bed and shows it to him. And of course it’s the goddamn book.

“I’d just be wasting both our times, now, wouldn’t I,” Breda answers. He can feel his face settle into his most stubborn bulldog expression. “If you’re going to arrest me, do it now. I’ve never been one for pointless conversations.”

“Look outside the window,” Mustang says quietly.

Breda does. The shiny black car he requested himself a little while ago is parking along the sidewalk.

He raises an eyebrow towards Mustang. “What, afraid you couldn’t take me on by yourself?”

“Tell me when they round the corner.”

Breda hesitates, then looks outside the window again. Forveilles and Dietrich, still in uniform, are getting out of the car. The doors clap shut. They start along the sidewalk, disappear from view—

“Now,” Breda says, and Mustang’s fingers _snap._

The fireball is huge—but really it just _feels_ huge, because they’re inside and it’s so hot and bright he can feel it on his skin, like a miniature sun blasting into existence, and it burns itself into his vision with a sudden _fwhoomp_ of consumed oxygen; then already it’s over. All gone, just a few ashes left and a burning smell in the air, the memory of fire multiplying in blue-green every time he blinks.

Breda’s heart is hammering against his ribs; his eyes are too wide.

“Don’t open the window,” Mustang warns. “It’s too cold out; they’ll suspect something. Do you smoke?”

“No.”

But Havoc’s forgotten his pack on the nightstand last time. Mustang pulls out a cigarette and gives it to him. “Just this once, lieutenant.”

Breda takes it from his gloved fingers. He gets out the lighter he bought for Havoc and flicks it on. Meanwhile, Mustang takes off his long black coat and puts it on the back of a chair, sweeping up the ashes into its folds as he does so. He gets out some paperwork from an inner pocket and hands it over wordlessly.

By the time Forveilles and Dietrich knock, Breda’s hands have almost stopped shaking. He opens the door with his least amiable expression. “Oh,” he says, and takes the cigarette out of his mouth to salute, sloppily. “I assume you’re here for the colonel?”

Forveilles blinks. “The colonel?”

Breda opens his door wide, letting them in. “We’re just catching up on some paperwork.” _As usual with this guy_ , his tone of voice heavily implies.

“Busted,” Mustang smiles, back to his unbearably self-satisfied persona. “Something I can help with, gentlemen?”

“Actually, we’re here for you, Lieutenant Breda.”

Breda expresses marginal interest. “Me?”

“We need to search the premises. Routine procedure as part of our ongoing investigation against the person of Himelstein, Jolia H.”

Breda steps back, shrugging. “Proceed.”

They search the place. It’s just one room, so it doesn’t take long. They turn over his mattress, even poke a long needle into it to make sure there isn’t anything inside. Breda keeps on his bulldog face, quietly smoking Havoc’s cigarette. Inhale, exhale, let the smoke trickle out. This stuff tastes like shit.

“All done,” Dietrich ends up saying. “Thank you for your cooperation. Good night, gentlemen.”

Breda waits till he hears their footsteps down the stairs, then till he sees them appear on the sidewalk, then till their car has peeled off the curb. Only then does he turn towards Mustang.

“Won’t they find it odd that you were here?”

Mustang smiles, thinner than his usual. “I’m famously incapable when it comes to paperwork. This really was just a routine inspection; they’re searching all of Himelstein’s former and current subordinates.”

“But _you_ knew there was something to be found here.”

“Lieutenant Havoc told me. Eventually.”

Breda’s first reaction is betrayal; then he wants to kick himself. Havoc’s saved his ass, and at the very last minute, too, because Breda was so caught up in determining whether his brain was performing adequately that he didn’t even think of disposing of the evidence _just in case_ he was right—again.

“Keeping this inside your apartment was a serious mistake,” Mustang says, dark eyes assessing. “One you can’t make again down the line. You can’t ever trust that you’re safe anywhere in East City, let alone Central.”

“What do you mean, down the l—what do you mean, _Central?”_

“That’s where we’re going, Lieutenant Breda.” Mustang smiles again, suddenly. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

Breda stares at him. He’s no Falman, but after a few seconds his mind heroically dredges up an incredibly silly memory, playing Dragonmon cards with the neighborhood kids, years and years before the war. There was a dark-haired midget a few years younger than him who just kept losing. His name was Roy.

Breda sits down on his bed. “All due respect, sir, what do I care that we knew each other when we were ten? Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“Oh, definitely not. I just wanted to check that you hadn’t changed.”

“What?”

“You always won,” Mustang says. “Everyone did, really, against me. But you won _creatively._ After a while you got bored and you started doing these elaborate strategies that came at the problem from a dozen different angles and still never failed—”

“Sir, you’re talking about _Dragonmon cards.”_

“No better or worse than chess,” Mustang shrugs. “I keep losing either way.”

Breda flashes back to Havoc smoking his cigarette in the sun, blue eyes hooded. _He wanted to see how you played._ Havoc always straight-lines his way to the conclusion Breda’s cerebral convolutions won’t let him reach until days later.

Breda wants to ask Mustang whether he really, genuinely sucks that much at chess, but he manages to beat back the impulse. “Being good at board games didn’t save me today,” he says instead.

“Yes it did,” Mustang counters. “Look at you. Are you getting arrested right now?”

“You and Havoc saved my ass.”

“Yes. But you saw it coming. You were on your way to fix it. It’s just that you were slightly too late. That’s what a team is for, to pick up each other’s slack.”

A team. Somehow that rattles Breda even more than the rest.

“You and Lieutenant Hawkeye are _war heroes,”_ he protests. “You expect me to believe you’ve—” he makes an aimless gesture at the vanished ashes. “What, read Ismail Kandela’s _The Reality of War_?”

“No.” Mustang pointedly takes off his gloves. “I don’t need to read it.”

Breda remains silent for a while.

“Central?” he asks again at last.

“Eventually. Let’s not rush into things.” Mustang gets up. “I’ll let you think about all this, lieutenant. You should air out this place, it stinks of smoke.”

*

The next morning Breda marches right up to Havoc’s desk and drops his pack in front of him. “You forgot your cigarettes.”

“Oh, hey, thanks.” Havoc ignores Breda’s stony glare and immediately pulls one out. “Did you have a good night?”

Breda wants to shout at him. Breda wants to ask what the hell he was thinking, trusting Mustang with that kind of information. Breda wants to kiss him. He often does, so dismissing the thought is like chasing a fly away. “Uneventful,” he answers.

Havoc smiles.

Falman pipes up from the back of the room. “I heard Forveilles and Dietrich will be leaving soon.”

“Finally,” Fuery answers. “I’m still not sure why they were here.”

Breda takes a breath, but before he can say anything else Hawkeye walks into the room.

They all straighten up and salute.

“Lieutenant Breda,” she says, “a word.”

He follows her to her desk, on the other side of the room, and she gestures at him to sit. “Do you have the paperwork?”

“Sir?”

“The paperwork you completed with Colonel Mustang last night. Do you have it?”

Breda stares, then says, “Yes. Excuse me. There it is.”

She takes it from his hands, skims it through then sets it aside. “Good work, thank you. The colonel always seems to generate extra work, I’m afraid.” Her gaze is incredibly direct. “Feels good to round up the team.”

“Right,” Breda says.

Right.

Then he can’t help but ask, lowering his voice, because despite his big brain he’s still just one year out of the academy—“Do you know what’s happened to Himelstein? Did she get arrested?”

A volley of gunfire cracks outside the window. Some birds fly off from a tree in the courtyard then come back, not that scared really, too used to it.

“I think you just missed her,” Hawkeye says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come join me in the comments lads
> 
> (though I consider this first chapter to be a standalone, I'll very probably add more to this story, so hit that subscribe button if you're at all interested)


	2. Chapter 2

Jean Havoc doesn’t know how to play chess. Multiple alternative goals and thinking ten steps ahead just sounds like more trouble than it’s worth. Fresh out of the academy, he’s just hoping for straightforward work and a good posting.

So when they tell him where he’s been assigned, he can’t help but repeat, _“Mustang?”_

“Don’t worry,” says the very nice officer he just reached after twenty-five minutes standing in line for his assignment papers. “He’s actually very approachable.”

The officer at the table next to her looks heavenwards, which doesn’t bode well. Havoc pockets his papers, wishes them a nice day and leaves the way he came. Breda, still standing in line, raises his eyebrows at him; Havoc mouths _Mustang_ and shrugs when Breda frowns, getting out a cigarette as he walks out into the sun.

He shakes his papers out and takes a second look. The form’s in triplicate so it really can’t be a misunderstanding. A lot of people worshipped Mustang at the academy; others prayed not to be in his squad. Havoc didn’t have much of an opinion one way or the other, didn’t imagine they might pick him. Well, now the chips have fallen, so he’ll just have to find out what he thinks about this on the go.

He gets to Mustang’s office first, finds the doors closed and sits down in the hallway to wait. After a while, a bright-eyed kid shows up and gives his name as Kain Fuery, followed closely by Reneta Vandenbrook, a tall woman with neat dreadlocks and a firm handshake. They’re still missing a lieutenant, and Havoc keeps an eye out just in case. Eventually a freckled man shows up, introducing himself as Kog Markel, and sits next to them. No Breda. All right.

Havoc stretches his legs out to wait. Not five minutes later, a small blond woman appears at the end of the hallway and they all get up to salute.

“Welcome,” she says, striding past them all to unlock the double doors. “My name is Riza Hawkeye. Please pick a desk and fill out your registration forms; Lieutenant Colonel Mustang will be here shortly.”

While Havoc fills out what feels like his hundredth form that day, a flash of sequins catches his eye; two floors down, there’s a girl in a fuchsia dress waiting in the courtyard. A dark-haired uniformed man in a flowing black coat sweeps out of the building to meet her with a smile. She takes his arm and they walk away together, laughter spilling off after them.

Yeah, Havoc’s pretty sure the Hero of Ishbal will not in fact be here shortly. He refocuses on his form and tries to ignore the sudden urge to smoke. He’ll soon be on two packs a day if he’s not careful.

*

East City isn’t so bad, but Havoc’s a country boy at heart and wasn’t too keen on its dark buildings and damp apartments. Since he’s gotten used to communal living at the academy, he’s opted for the HQ barracks, which suit him okay. It’s companionable and cheap, with laundry services and meals on-site. When he visits Breda’s small, narrow place he doesn’t regret his choice one bit.

Everyone in HQ calls his class the lucky bunch, because they graduated just as the war ended. It’s barely been three months since the Amestrisan forces have declared ceasefire for lack of enemy combatants; the last of the exhausted, battered Central troops have only just departed, leaving behind a few war heroes standing in their wake like scarecrows in a pillaged field, and the urgent need to stabilize the area.

Which mostly means rounds. There are lots of Ishbalan groups and terrorist cells roaming the countryside, but they’re struggling to organize and tend to flee whenever a patrol shows up. As military work goes, it’s tense but suitable, meaning they’re almost always weapons out but never actually firing at anything, and there are enough smoke breaks and dice games and sneaking beer into the barracks that Havoc soon feels right at home again.

Plus this happens one morning on his way to HQ:

“Ma’am,” Havoc calls. “Excuse me, ma’am!”

The brunette turns around, looking tense—some people get uncomfortable around army personnel—then surprise clears her face when she sees Havoc handing her a leather wallet. “I think you dropped this.”

She blinks, taking it from him. “Why—thank you, officer…?”

“Master Sergeant Havoc. Pleasure’s all mine.” Havoc smiles, and then _she_ smiles, and she asks him how long he’s been in town, and he says he just got here, and five minutes later he’s got a date.

So yeah, he thinks he can get used to East City just fine.

*

Mustang continues to be mostly absent; their first meeting actually happens by random chance in the hallway, over two weeks after Havoc’s military debut. When the man asks who he is, Havoc has to tell him he’s on his squad, actually. Mustang smiles and says, “Are you? Capital!” then keeps right on walking.

Try as one might, it’s hard to summon visions of _that_ guy standing in a flaming inferno of death. Maybe if the pile of paperwork on his desk caught on fire.

It doesn’t really matter, anyway, because Lieutenant Hawkeye more than makes up for all of the Hero’s failings. She’s strict, but never unfair and always clear in her commands. As long as you listen closely and put in the work, there aren’t any surprises. In the end, after all, this is what he wanted: honest work under a good CO.

One day Havoc asks her if he can leave early. She looks up from her paperwork. “Why?”

“I have a date,” he confesses. “First date.”

She looks back down. “Then yes. But you’ll come in early tomorrow morning.”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.” Havoc salutes and leaves with a spring in his step.

*

“Yohanna’s amazing,” he tells Breda the next night. A couple of bars are slowly beginning to open or reopen across town, scrounging up ill-assorted chairs and rickety tables into makeshift terraces to take advantage of the late summer. “She’s so _sweet_. You didn’t tell me East City girls were so sweet!”

“Guess I hadn’t noticed.” Breda takes the cap off his beer and curses when it foams over his fingers.

“I’m real lucky I got the night off,” Havoc goes on, dreamily. “Got Hawkeye to thank for that.”

“Nice of her.”

“What about you? How’s your CO, how’s everything?”

“Oh, Himelstein’s fine. It’s her sergeants I can’t stand.” Breda raises an eyebrow at himself and concedes, “They probably don’t like me much as their lieutenant, either.”

Havoc grins around his cigarette. “To think you could’ve been mine in another life.”

Breda lets out a noncommittal grunt and wipes his fingers on a napkin, then clinks his beer against Havoc’s. “To your love life, Havoc.”

“To your lucky sergeants,” Havoc answers, which makes him snort.

*

When he comes back to the barracks that night, he’s beer-buzzed enough that he doesn’t clock the guy standing in the hallway until he almost walks right into him.

“Sorry—” He tries to focus past the brain fog. “Falman, right?”

“Sergeant Havoc. Hello,” Falman says. “Sorry I’m in the way.”

“Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“I’d like to,” he answers with just a hint of wryness. “It’s been three hours, now—I don’t know where they find the energy.”

That’s when Havoc hears the moans and grunting on the other side of the door. It’s technically illegal to fraternize with your co-workers but high command tends to look the other way as long as it’s nothing serious. Falman gives a sort of dry shrug as if to say, _What can you do._

“There’s a free bunk in our room, if you want it,” Havoc offers. Shrieder has a girlfriend, too, and he’s been spending the night more and more lately.

Falman nods, all the muscles in his face clenching like he’s trying not to yawn. “I’d actually really appreciate that, thank you.”

“If this keeps happening, you might want to think about getting an apartment,” Havoc says, leading him down the hallway. “Or at least putting in a request to change rooms.”

“Yes, maybe I’ll go to the barracks on Coppermine Road.”

“Right—next to the train station?”

“No, that’s Coppermine Avenue. Coppermine Road intersects with West Avenue, Telmaing Lane and Basters Avenue, which circles right around to HQ through Wisteria Park.” He yawns for good this time. “It’s a five minute walk to HQ, ten if the park’s closed.”

“East City native, huh?”

Falman looks at him like he’s too tired to really understand the question. “No, I grew up in Lior.”

“What, did you swallow a map or something?” Havoc asks, pushing his dorm room open. His other roommates are already here, deeply asleep and not having sex with anyone, bless them.

“I just remember things. Thank you, Havoc—good night,” Falman says, and collapses on Shrieder’s bed.

*

And then Mustang starts showing up during drills.

At first he’s just chatting with Hawkeye on the side while she puts them through their paces like the civil war’s about to start again. Havoc doesn’t care that much; drills are a fact of life. But when Mustang starts _blowing shit up_ , Havoc can’t help but wonder if he’s actively trying to alienate his squad.

“Keep going,” Hawkeye yells, her voice clear over the rumbling echoes of the detonation. “Don’t let it distract you.”

Havoc, who dived for cover into the trench when the sky caught on fire, huffs through his nose and gets out a cigarette. He’s managed not to smoke on the job so far, but if he’s going to do this, he’ll damn well do it with nicotine in his system. The smell of tobacco attracts Fuery, who arrives crawling on all fours and sits next to Havoc with a little sigh.

Havoc blows out smoke. “How’s it hanging, Fuery.”

“Oh, you know,” Fuery answers fatalistically, brushing the ash out of his hair. He digs through his pocket and gets out a pillbox. “Earplugs?”

“Shit, yeah. Thanks.” Havoc picks out some. “You just carry these around?”

“Got them from the shooting range.” They both wedge them into their ears.

Another explosion tears through the air, the sound booming in their stomachs, and they flinch at the spray of dirt. Havoc stubs out his cigarette and pockets it for later, then nods at Fuery and signals him to go around the other way. If they’re going to complete this drill they’ve got five paper targets to take down, flapping in the breeze at the other end of the field.

As soon as he finds a favorable angle, Havoc adjusts his rifle over the trench, takes aim and briefly thinks: _Hey, shouldn’t those be on fire by now?_ He gets in an okay shot, center mass, then promptly retreats when another explosion blasts overhead. Next time he looks, the target he’s shot is burning up, but the other four are pristine.

After a very long, very noisy ninety minutes, the last target’s taken down—by Fuery, who isn’t that great of a shot but was probably feeling extremely motivated by this point. The second Hawkeye calls it, Havoc gets his half-smoked cigarette back out and sticks it in his mouth before leaving the trench. It’s really not regulation, but he’s not going to light it up. He just needs the taste right now.

Thankfully, neither Hawkeye and Mustang seem to care. In fact, Mustang’s already gone, with a “Good work, soldiers!” and a careless wave over his shoulder.

Hawkeye takes one look at her four sweaty, sooty, shaky officers, plus the dozen men or so behind them, and says, “Let’s do a quick debrief.”

She mercifully does keep it short, ten minutes which boil down to _Congratulations for not running for the hills,_ and then they can all hit the showers. Havoc gives Fuery his heartfelt thanks for the earplugs, drops his ruined uniform into the laundry chute and goes to stand under the spray. His ringing ears can’t help overhearing Markel and Vandenbrook’s manic conversation.

_Insane and pointlesss—vainglorious show-off—unrealistic, unacceptable—_

Realizing there’s something in his mouth, Havoc takes the forgotten, bedraggled cigarette out with a sigh, then lifts his face under the water and closes his eyes.

*

“You’re in _Roy Mustang’s squad?_ ” Yohanna’s lovely dark eyes open wide. “What’s he like?”

Havoc comes from a very small town and knows badmouthing people leads to decades-long feuds and denying credit. Plus work ethics run strong in his family, seeing as they’ve manned the general store for three generations now; their motto might as well be not to mix personal and professional. So he just says, “Can’t complain.”

Yohanna’s completely forgotten her menu, leaning forward in fascination, her pale forearms pressed together on the table. “Did you ever see him do fire alchemy? Does he still do that on the field? Do you go out on the field _with him?”_

“Aw, you know, I don’t really want to talk about work,” Havoc smiles. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”

“Oh, _smooth_ , Master Sergeant Havoc.” She bats at him with the bouquet he brought, laughing. “All right, fine, let’s order.”

Later that night, Havoc enjoys a very nice kiss at Yohanna’s door, slow and sweet. They both giggle a bit afterwards, kiss again, quicker this time, then she gives him a wave and vanishes up the stairs to her apartment. Havoc, too smitten to know where the hell he’s going, wanders around daydreaming about how her chest felt pressed up against him until he realizes he’s actually not very far from Breda’s place.

He loses his way two or three more times trying to find it—if only he could ring Falman to ask for directions—then finally locates the narrow door with flaky black paint, just as it opens on Breda taking out the trash.

“Havoc?”

“Hey. I was in the neighborhood…”

Breda smirks, dropping his bag in the dumpster. “You’ve got lipstick on your collar. Come in.”

Havoc climbs up the steps after him, still grinning intermittently at nothing. In fact, he’s so busy thinking about the softness of Yohanna’s lips that he almost misses Breda making a beeline for his nightstand to grab the book lying there and shove it into the drawer.

The next second Breda’s saying, “Want some tea, coffee? Got beer if you like,” and Havoc says “Tea, thanks,” and leaves half an hour later with directions scribbled on a piece of paper, and doesn’t ask any questions.

*

“Good _morning_ ,” Mustang sing-songs, striding into the office. “There has been a _terrorist attack.”_

They all stare at him and Hawkeye sighs. “I’m not sure this is the best way to break that kind of news, sir.”

“Well, we have to find some joy in our work and we can’t count on the terrorists for that, now can we,” Mustang answers. “Sergeant Fuery, set up radio comms, we’ll be on channel five. Lieutenant Vandenbrook, go gather up your squad, take them to Lisberth Plaza. Lieutenant Markel, you’re with me—where’s Markel?”

“I gave you a memo about that,” Hawkeye says as the office suddenly whirls into action.

“Right,” Mustang answers in a tone that clearly conveys he not only lost the memo but also didn’t read it beforehand. “Havoc, then, let’s go.”

Havoc gets up, struck. “Yessir.”

Mustang and Hawkeye walk so fast Havoc has to hurry to keep up, even though he’s taller than both of them. They stop to equip themselves with radios, and of course all three of them are already armed, but he still blinks when they start heading downstairs without further ado.

“Sir? We’re not waiting for Lieutenant Vandenbrook?”

“She’ll meet us there,” Hawkeye explains. “We have to hurry if we want to be first on the scene.”

Havoc is about to ask _And why do we want that?_ but decides to save his breath instead.

Getting out of the cars five minutes later, they’re not quite first on the scene—the Lisberth Plaza is teeming with military police who all look intensely relieved seeing actual officers show up. They’re right in front of a five-story building with faded gold letters on the façade reading _Grand Eastern Hotel._ Havoc’s gaze drifts over a black lump in the middle of the plaza and he feels a cold jolt a second later when he realizes it’s a dead body.

“Third floor,” Hawkeye says, staring at a broken window.

Mustang’s looking in the same direction. “Do you think you can get them from here?”

“Not without a sniper rifle and a good vantage point.”

Their radios crackle to life. _“Vandenbrook is on her way, colonel,”_ Fuery announces. _“ETA five minutes. HQ says to stay put.”_

“Hostages?” Mustang asks.

_“No, sir. The hotel’s empty, closed during the war.”_

“How many shooters?”

A police officer salutes behind them. “Three shooters, sir. From the Eastern Liberation Front. Captain Kovacs identified them as such, sir.”

Havoc asks, “And where’s Captain Kovacs?” but before the question’s even left his mouth he already knows the answer, which gets confirmed when the man points at the corpse in the middle of the plaza.

“I can flush them out,” Mustang says quietly. “From the back, get them to come out right in front of everyone. Nice and public.”

“We don’t know how many exits there are,” Hawkeye counters in the same tone of voice. Her gaze is steady as always, calculating. “We’ll have to wait for Vandenbrook’s squad to surround the building.”

Havoc thinks for a second, then clicks into the channel. “Fuery, is Falman around?”

Hawkeye turns her head to look at him. The radio crackles. _“Falman?”_

“Officer Vato Falman, he’s on Katrin’s squad, I think. Across the hall.”

 _“One second.”_ A moment later, Falman’s thin voice comes on the line. _“Sergeant Havoc?”_

“How many exits are there in the Grand Eastern Hotel overlooking Lisberth Plaza?” Havoc asks in one breath.

Mustang and Hawkeye are both watching him now, and for a second he thinks he’s made a complete fool of himself—but then Falman’s answering him, with that regular cadence of his like he’s reading from a book. _“Two exits only, the front entrance and the back door. There used to be a second service entrance but it’s been walled up in 1905. Five windows on ground floor, all barred.”_

Mustang’s already on the move, his coat billowing around his ankles. “Sergeant Havoc, with me. Lieutenant Hawkeye, keep your position, be prepared.”

“Yessir,” Hawkeye answers.

Havoc follows after Mustang, wondering if he should have shut up. As they step into Ford Street to get behind the hotel, Mustang says, “Weapons out. I’ll need you to take out one of the back windows.”

He’s putting on his gloves, one after the other, without breaking his stride. Havoc unholsters his gun, keeps it trained on the ground for now, looking up at the façade of the building. They haven’t entered the windows’ line of sight yet; Mustang abruptly stops right before they do, not even looking.

His eyes land on Havoc. “Quickly. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

The moment they step out, Havoc gets hit by a wall of adrenaline at the thought that he could end up like Kovacs, lying dead in the middle of the plaza. He raises his gun, fires, feels the recoil into his arm—and the hiss of something else crackling past his cheek, a burning spark that flies up an invisible line, right into the hole he just opened into the glass—

 _BOOM._ It’s a huge burst of flames which blows out all of the windows; screams are heard all around the hotel, and Mustang and Havoc are falling back, close to the building façade to avoid the shower of broken glass. In his mind’s eye Havoc can see the men inside, coughing and panicked, running for the front entrance—

A distant gunshot echoes from the other side of the building and, a second later, Hawkeye’s calm voice comes on the radio. _“One_.” Immediately after, another gunshot. _“Two.”_

They wait for the third one, but instead the back door bangs open and a man comes running out, wild-eyed and disheveled, and clocks the two officers waiting for him and aims right at Mustang who raises his gloved hand—

There’s a gunshot.

The man drops. Havoc feels a familiar ache in his arm, again, and realizes he’s the one who fired. His gun is still up, smoking slightly. He’s stepped in front of his CO. His left hand is wrapped tight around Mustang’s, wrenching his fingers apart to keep him from snapping.

Mustang is looking at him with wide eyes.

The man’s blood slowly trickles out between the cobblestones. Center mass, solid shot.

Havoc lets go of Mustang, lowers his gun. There’s something else he needs to do. A second later, he remembers, clicks into the channel and says, “Three.”

Hawkeye answers something, but Havoc doesn’t hear her. His ears are ringing, and there’s too much saliva in his mouth. He swallows thickly, holsters his gun. The ignition glove was rough and slightly tacky; he feels like he’s still touching it.

“Sergeant,” Mustang says. He hasn’t stopped looking at him. “Why did you do that?”

“He was too close,” Havoc breathes out. “Too close for you to fire.”

“No he wasn’t. I’m good at control, too.” Mustang’s face is indecipherable now. “But of course you couldn’t know that.”

Havoc thinks back to the paper targets, allowed to ignite only after they’d been shot.

“I could have guessed.” Breda would have guessed. Breda wouldn’t have had to kill someone. Havoc’s mouth is still filling up; he swallows again.

Mustang still won’t look away. “Do you need to throw up?”

“Sorry, sir. I’m fine.” He swallows a third time. He’ll be fine. He’s fine, even though he’s breaking out in a cold sweat under his uniform jacket. He always knew this might happen—would happen; he just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Mustang watches him a little longer; then reaches for his radio and clicks back to the main channel. “All good here, we’re coming back.”

*

“Havoc.”

Havoc opens his eyes to a moldy ceiling. It’s dark out, completely quiet. He’s fallen asleep fully clothed on Breda’s bed.

Sitting at his small table on the other side of the room, Breda’s focused on the book he’s reading. The only source of light is the glow coming from his desk lamp.

“It’s almost seven,” he says. “You’ve got a date.”

Havoc sits up, rubs his face, then drags his fingers through his hair. He pushes to his feet, grabbing his jacket at the end of the bed. “Thanks. See you later.”

“I’ll be staying up late,” Breda says without looking up. “In case you want to come back.”

*

By the end of the week, Havoc doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore. He doesn’t blame her. He’s not much fun to be around, can’t focus on anything. When she hears the news, Hawkeye gives him a sympathetic nod and more work, for which he’s glad. She hasn’t tried talking to him about what happened on Lisberth Plaza, and he’s sort of glad for that too.

The office’s quieter than usual; Mustang’s in another of his disappearing phases, and it turns out Lieutenant Markel isn’t coming back, ever. Apparently the explosion drills were too much for him and he requested an immediate transfer. No one’s come in to replace him yet, probably because there are too many candidates, or perhaps too few.

And then one bright morning, Havoc comes into work to find someone sitting behind Markel’s desk.

“Officer Falman?”

Falman stands and salutes, looking slightly awkward. He can’t be here to replace Markel; he’s a warrant officer. Before either of them can say anything else, Hawkeye calls Havoc’s name from her desk.

He crosses the room under the others’ curious gaze, wondering if he’s getting transferred or fired or what. She gets out a craft envelope from a drawer; when she tears it open, two little gold stars fall into her hand. “Congratulations, Second Lieutenant Havoc.”

Havoc stares at her.

She gets up and pins them on his shoulder pads, one on each side. “Usually there would be a ceremony, but I’m afraid things tend to move rather fast these days. The paperwork’s on your desk.”

She salutes, and Havoc salutes right back, on automatic pilot. Someone slaps his shoulder; it’s Fuery, cheerfully congratulating him, and Falman’s here too, shaking his hand, more reserved but no less sincere. Havoc’s trying to process, and just when he thinks he might start feeling some kind of emotion about it, Vandenbrook’s voice cuts right through his train of thought:

“So is this how things work around here?”

The room falls silent.

Hawkeye puts the empty envelope away, placidly. “Something on your mind, Lieutenant Vandenbrook?”

“Since you’re asking, yes.” She gets up and walks around her desk to go and face Hawkeye. “I think the Hero of Ishbal is a stupid, dangerous man who will stop at nothing for another medal. I think last week’s action was as reckless as it was unnecessary, not to mention disrespectful to me and my squad. And I think promoting Sergeant Havoc—”

 _“_ Lieutenant Havoc,” Hawkeye corrects.

Vandenbrook’s nostrils flare. “I think this promotion is a transparent, self-congratulating maneuver to paint close calls as deliberate wins and further Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang’s narcissistic, careerist goals even more.”

Hawkeye looks at her. Vandenbrook stares right back. Fuery and Falman seem to be readying for some kind of explosion.

Then someone claps at the other end of the room. “So _very_ well-put. Did you rehearse this?”

They all swivel round, except of course for Hawkeye who was already facing the door. Mustang’s here, smiling.

Vandenbrook goes very, very still. He looks at her for a full second, then seems to forget her existence entirely and turns to Havoc instead. “Lieutenant, come with me.”

Havoc follows him out of the room.

Mustang strides down the hallway and down the stairs, then through the main hall and into the courtyard. Havoc realizes he very badly wants a cigarette, again. Just the week before he would have resisted the impulse, but now he just gets one out and even lights it up. By the time they get to the drilling grounds, he’s smoked it whole.

There are three straw dummies standing at the end of the field.

“Do you agree with what Lieutenant Vandenbrook said?” Mustang asks, putting on his gloves.

“Which part, sir?”

Mustang half-smiles. “I certainly don’t deny that I am a careerist.”

He snaps; there’s a crackling noise, and one of the dummies bursts into flames.

“But it was an insult to imply that your promotion was undeserved.”

Havoc just says, “You got Falman.”

“He was wasted on Katrin,” Mustang says dismissively. “And you were wasted as a sergeant. Now, how am I doing this?”

He snaps and a second dummy catches on fire, less spectacularly than the first, low flames crackling over its edges and gnawing slowly at the straw.

Havoc almost answers he doesn’t know anything about alchemy, but of course Mustang’s aware of that. There’s one answer to give that won’t be factually untrue. “Sparks from your gloves.” He pauses, then goes on almost automatically: “Which means… you’re actually setting fire to something. Not blasting flames out of nowhere.”

“Correct.” The third puppet goes off; this one is instantly incinerated, nothing left but ash. Mustang turns to Havoc, showing him the back of his hand. “So what are those arrays for?”

Havoc looks at the red embroidery. Those symbols mean nothing to him, but he knows explosions need fuel, and it’s not like Mustang’s splashing gasoline around. So there’s only one possible answer.

“Some kind of gas. They’re gas manufacturing arrays?”

“Close. I don’t need to manufacture anything. We’re breathing it already.” He bends down to pick up a piece of wheat the first explosion’s blown to their feet. “All I need is to adjust oxygen density. Hold this for me, please.”

“Colonel—”

“Take it.”

Havoc does. Mustang snaps his fingers, and the wheat lights up like a birthday candle. It’s so precise no heat even touches Havoc’s hand.

He looks at the little dancing flame.

“Now you know, and you’ll be able to react accordingly on the field.” Mustang takes off his gloves. “You’ve raised my expectations, lieutenant. Don’t let me down.”

*

“I’m not surprised,” Breda says. He truly doesn’t look surprised, just annoyed, fighting with his window which won’t open. “I always knew you’d make lieutenant in no time.”

Sitting back on his chair, Havoc smiles at the ceiling, blowing smoke upwards. They’re celebrating, so he’s allowed one cigarette in Breda’s apartment. Breda finally manages to get the pane open and sits across from him on his creaky stool; his little desk is too high and narrow to be used as a table, so they’ve overturned a crate between them.

“Probably won’t ever be my CO now,” Havoc tells him.

Breda gives him a rare smile, then grabs a beer and puts his feet up on the crate. “Missed my chance.”

It’s night but still warm out, summer slowly edging into autumn. A light breeze’s coming in, disrupting the thin trickle of smoke. Breda gulps some beer. “So are you getting transferred?”

“No, Markel left. I’m taking his place, and they brought in Falman to replace me.”

“Falman. The memory guy?” Breda raises an eyebrow. “Plus Fuery. Who’s the last one?”

“Vandenbrook, but she was pretty vocal about not liking Mustang or his methods. Don’t think she’ll be staying much longer.”

“And do you?” Breda asks. “Like him or his methods?”

Havoc shrugs. Even with Breda, he doesn’t talk much about work. “I like that he expects something from me.”

To his vague surprise he gets the sudden urge to ask Breda if he’s already killed someone. He draws on his cigarette instead, unhappy with himself. Breda frowns into space, lost in thought for a moment. He too looks more preoccupied these days, always on overtime, late nights in Himelstein’s office. Looks like neither of them got a quiet posting.

*

Vandenbrook, who never returned after her self-destructive tirade, has been replaced by a string of second lieutenants—people high command is just sending over to them, and who usually request a transfer after two or three weeks. This means Havoc has to work twice as much, doing intelligence work on top of handling his executive tasks.

Since he’s overseeing most of the squad’s operations, he can clearly see that Mustang _is_ angling for glory at all costs—Vandenbrook was entirely right about that. It’s always flashy, front-and-center ops, and if it can be solved with explosions, all the better. The steady turnover of women on Mustang’s arm and his nonchalant disregard for administrative work don’t help, but as someone who’s actually spent more than three weeks straight under his orders by now, Havoc can clearly _see_ that underneath it all, Mustang’s a competent CO who’s never once steered his squad wrong in the field. He reminds Havoc of Breda in some ways, meaning there has to be more to his ambition, otherwise it wouldn’t be so blatant, so ostentatious. People with minds like these never show their hand.

And then, thanks mostly to Fuery’s mass phone-tapping, they finally manage to locate and arrest the leader of the Eastern Liberation Front; and all of a sudden things get much calmer. There are still skirmishes and unrest and rumors of roaming armed groups, but people start throwing the word _peacetime_ around a lot more, and the work starts changing, more about reconstruction and rehabilitation than mere damage control.

It’s around that time that Hawkeye announces they’ve finally been authorized to request their own handpicked intelligence officer. When he sees the name on one of Mustang’s rare memos, Havoc can’t help smiling around his cigarette—he smokes in HQ all the time now. Looks like he’s going to have to stop again, at least as far as the office is concerned.

*

Forveilles reaches out to the tape recorder and clicks it on. It starts rolling with a metallic purring noise. Both Central officers sit down at the table across from Havoc.

“Please state your name and rank for the record.”

“Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc.”

“Excuse me,” Dietrich says. “You cannot smoke in here.”

“Sorry.” Havoc stubs out his cigarette and puts it in his front pocket.

“When did you start working for Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang?”

“Eighteen months ago.”

“What is your opinion of him?”

Havoc hesitates. Dietrich says, “Lieutenant, we’re on a mandate from Central. Please answer the question.”

“He likes the ladies,” Havoc begins. It’s not hard forcing his hick accent a little. “Kind of a slacker at the office sometimes, with the paperwork an’ all. But I’d say he’s a good CO, generally speaking.”

Forveilles takes some notes. It lasts for much longer than Havoc would expect, and seems to include a lot more words. When the pen stops scratching, Dietrich goes on. “Have you ever heard a statement from the colonel that might be construed as dissent?”

“Sorry, sir,” Havoc says. “Don’t know that word.”

Dietrich’s eyebrows go up by a fraction. “ _Dissent_?”

“ _Construed_.”

Forveilles blows air through his nose.

“Have you ever heard him say anything against the _army_ ,” Dietrich says dryly.

Havoc shrugs. “Not really? He doesn’t like the food, I guess, but nobody does. And he says the uniform collars are too stiff. Also he couldn’t keep an intelligence officer for a while,” he adds before Dietrich can get really annoyed.

Forveilles looks up from his notebook. “Oh?”

“Yeah, lots of ‘em quit one after the other. Between you and me, I think they didn’t like the explosions.”

“You mean his fire alchemy?” asks Dietrich.

“Yeah, however you wanna call it. He’s a bit of a show-off that way, any excuse to blow things up. Brings back memories, I guess.”

Forveilles flips a page in his notebook. Dietrich says, “Do you know someone named Jolia H. Himelstein?”

“Uh, yeah?” Havoc says, not faking his mild confusion this time. “She’s a lieutenant-colonel, too.”

“Have you ever interacted with her?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever heard a statement from her that might be construed as dissent?”

“No, sir. Since I haven’t interacted with her.”

Forveilles gives him a look. Dietrich’s now reading from a notebook of his own. “Can you confirm Lieutenant Heymans Breda, Lieutenant Krel Jacobi, Sergeant Theodora Carmin, Officer Gob Kareddine and Officer Daly Manfred have all served under her at some point in the past year? Do you know whether they’ve worked overtime hours and if so, how frequently?”

Havoc blinks. “How would I… I mean, I’m sorry, I want to help out, but I’m not an administration officer.”

Forveilles closes his notebook. Dietrich turns off the tape recorder with a sharp _click._

“That’ll be all, lieutenant. Thank you for your cooperation.”

When he gets up from his chair, Havoc feels a sharp point of pain over his heart—the stub’s slowly burned a hole through his pocket all the way to the skin.

*

 _Did they ask about Himelstein_ , Breda said. Havoc didn’t say they asked about _him_ ; Breda was pale enough already _._ Havoc remembers very clearly the writing inside Dietrich’s notebook, upside-down chicken scratches. _Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda._ In a long string of names like he’s just anyone, might get lost in the multitude. _Have they worked overtime hours during their service?_ Breda’s been looking drawn for a while now, worried, jumpy. _Hey, Havoc, why did you get into the army?_

When Mustang finds him in the break room that afternoon and quietly asks if there’s anything he wants to share about Forveilles and Dietrich’s investigation, Havoc’s eyes drift to the chess board in the corner. How does the rook move? Is that two squares one way, three squares the other way? No, that’s the knight.

He’s not good at thinking ten steps ahead. All he knows are yes-or-no choices. So does he let the Hero of Ishbal snap his fingers this time? Forveilles and Dietrich asked about Mustang before they asked about Himelstein. Does that mean anything? Is that enough for that kind of leap? This is _Breda._ And after all these months the only thing Havoc still really knows for certain is that Mustang is a killer.

But then so’s Havoc.

Mustang is watching him with intense dark eyes. He’s always slacking off, always gone on dates. So free, everyone used to it. Nobody will notice or ask questions if he ducks out early.

Behind him, down in the courtyard, Forveilles and Dietrich are getting into their black car.

This man’s made him a lieutenant, lit up a fire in his hand. _Now you know, and you’ll be able to react accordingly._

Havoc exhales quietly, then finally makes eye contact.

“You’ve raised my expectations, sir,” he starts.

And that night Mustang doesn’t let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> give me all of your thoughts. i crave them
> 
> next chapter we'll start overlapping with canon :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have GIVEN UP on anticipating how many chapters this is going to take, but i know where i'm going and i'm taking you all with me

It’s ironic, that Mustang’s the one who achieved what Breda could only ever dream of: seducing Havoc.

Mustang’s seduced them all, really. Fuery first, spotted at the academy by Hawkeye and recruited right away into Mustang’s team, so that he found his talents appreciated, his hobbies rewarded and his ingenuousness welcomed, when in other squads he might have been crushed in a variety of ways. It’s the same for Falman, on the opposite end of the spectrum—just as idiosyncratic in his way but older, warier, obviously well-acquainted with dismissal. Mustang’s team must be a welcome change of pace for him, one he clearly still has a hard time believing in sometimes.

Havoc’s the one for whom it’s most obvious—or maybe that’s just because he’s the one Breda knows best. He’s always respected the hierarchy, but now it’s not just about good discipline anymore. Breda knows this for certain the day he hears Havoc answer Mustang with “Sure thing, chief.” He might _seem_ laid-back, but he’s actually pretty straight-laced, and for him to allow even just a hint of familiarity towards his CO means he obeys Mustang not because he has to, but because he’s decided it was the right thing to do, wherever Mustang might take them all—and Breda knows for a fact that might be quite far.

It worries him, sometimes, even though that’s also where he’s wanted to go since day one. But since he literally owes Mustang his life he’s damn well going to pay his debts.

*

The tension isn’t gone by any means, but after the Himelstein affair, it becomes—easier. Breda still keeps an eye over his shoulder when he goes home at night. He still doesn’t visit her grave. He’s not sure she has one.

As the war finishes ebbing, more and more links to Central are reestablished. Telephone and radio lines, railways, even roads, though nobody travels that far by car. After the restaurants, hotels start to reopen. Visitors from Central HQ start showing up more frequently, but those don’t worry Breda anymore; since Mustang is aiming for the top, he needs his squad to perform flawlessly. Now that the team’s rounded-out and solid, even the most suspicious Central interrogator couldn’t make them a single reproach.

Except for all the code violations, of course. Between Havoc’s chainsmoking, Breda keeping his uniform jacket open because they always cut the damn things too tight, Fuery’s model radios cluttering up his desk and Falman’s ever-growing bookshelf in a corner, the office isn’t exactly regulation. Hawkeye also has an extracurricular hobby, but since that hobby is guns, she doesn’t stand out as much as the rest of them. All of that doesn’t really matter anyway, because Mustang himself makes them all look like consummate professionals in comparison, chattering away on the army lines all day long while the paperwork piles up on his desk.

A good reputation in Central, a mediocre one in East City; their hard work acknowledged where it counts, their squad dismissed as unthreatening on a surface level. They’re all working together to keep it that way; and progress is starting to be made.

*

One chilly morning, Breda climbs the steps to HQ and slips gratefully into the warm building, folding his winter coat over his arm before reporting to the administrative desk. Franek, the officer in charge, gives him his mail; Breda opens the telegram from Dalen Hospital first and skims it.

“Bad news?” Franek inquires.

Breda knows he always has his bad news face on, so he doesn’t get offended. Besides, Franek knows his mother is in the hospital. “Just an update,” he answers, folding up the paper. “She’s doing okay.”

Just then someone comes out of the men’s bathroom, a dark-haired lieutenant colonel Breda doesn’t know. Franek lights up: “Ah, sir—thank you for waiting, here’s someone who can help you.”

The man looks over at Breda, who thinks: _Central_.

He gives Franek a baleful look, though of course he’s just doing his job, then salutes vaguely. “Sir. Shall I escort you to Lieutenant Colonel Mustang’s office?”

“How did you guess I was here for him?” the man says cheerfully, following him down the hallway.

“Most people are.”

“Yes, he’s getting quite the reputation, isn’t he.” He sounds much too pleased by this. “You must be Lieutenant Breda.”

Breda raises an eyebrow. “What department did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t say! Sorry about that. Central Bureau of Investigations.”

He feels a tug in his stomach. This is Forveilles and Dietrich’s boss.

He opens the door into the office, vaguely praying it’ll be empty. On any given day, either Mustang doesn’t show up until after lunch or he’s somehow appeared before the opening hours, there’s no in between. To Breda’s dismay, today is an early bird day and Mustang’s in fact sitting at his desk, poring over his correspondence. Looks like they’re jumping into that one without a parachute.

“Colonel Mustang,” Breda calls. “Someone here for you.”

Mustang looks up, then blinks. “Hughes?”

Hughes walks up to his desk without bothering to salute. “Hey there, Roy. Corner office for your squad, I see! Doing pretty well for yourself, huh?”

“You’d know.” He grabs a form from his pile and starts filling it in, careful in a way he normally isn’t. “So how are things going at the CBI? Are you fitting in?”

“Oh, we’re all keeping very busy,” Hughes says blithely. “Central never sleeps. It’s insane! It’s insane. There’s hardly any time left to handle provincial investigations.”

Breda’s stomach unknots gradually. They know each other. This is the _new_ head of the CBI. And he’s all but telling them East City isn’t under a microscope anymore. Now Breda gets why everything’s felt so relaxed lately.

“Did you come all the way for pleasantries?” Mustang says. He’s still doing paperwork, or pretending to.

“You’re right. Business first.” Hughes gets out a craft envelope and hands it over.

Mustang opens it, reads the form inside. Some kind of emotion tries to get a hold of his features; he doesn’t let it and just gives the paper to Breda.

Breda skims the form and feels the exact same thing happen to his face. As it turned out, that repressed emotion was triumph. He gives the paper back, without a smile. “Congratulations, sir.”

Promoted to colonel. There _is_ a smile on Mustang’s face, now, only barely there, not at all like the smug face he’ll certainly wear later during the ceremony. Interestingly, the same smile is ghosting over Hughes’ lips. He makes eye contact with Breda for a second, then turns back to Mustang, but Breda got the message. They’ve got more friends waiting at all levels, paving the way.

*

“An Ishbal veteran?” Havoc says over the noise of the running shower. “But he’s the head of the CBI. That’s a pencil-pusher job.”

Breda’s thrown his uniform into the laundry already and he’s pulling up his pants, buckling his belt. “He’s on a first-name basis with Mustang and he knows Hawkeye personally. He must have met them both in Ishbal, there’s no other explanation.”

“No wonder he’s on our side, then.”

Breda doesn’t _like_ the barracks showers—with their stall doors hiding people only from calves to mid-back, they’re where privacy comes to die. Probably from a fungal infection, too. But at least you can be sure no one’s listening in on your potentially incriminating conversations.

He buttons up his shirt and tucks it in. The glass is beginning to fog up with the steam from Havoc’s shower, but not fast enough; Breda can still see in the mirror that he’s washing his hair, water trickling down his neck, his bare shoulders.

Breda looks down to do his tie.

“Does that have anything to do with your evening plans?” Havoc asks.

“Officially, I’m on a date.” Breda puts on his tan jacket, straightens the lapels. He likes suits, owns a few and rarely gets to wear them.

Havoc rinses his head then turns off the water, smiling at him over the stall door. “Is that why you’re so elegant?”

“I’m always elegant, Havoc. It’s the uniform that doesn’t agree with me.” He grabs his coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“He’s a lucky one,” Havoc calls after him.

*

Breda walks out in the cold to the nearest phone booth and calls the office. Mustang answers at the first ring. “ _My lovely Brenda! Right on time. I’ll see you in half an hour at Rogers’ Place, all right? Can’t wait, darling, bye-bye.”_

Breda hangs up then flips open his map book. Rogers’ Place—135, Mayfield Avenue. He pockets the book, buttons up his coat and sets out into the night. It’s a thirty minute walk indeed, and by the time he gets there Mustang’s already sitting at a table in the back, right on time in a way he never is at the office. Maes Hughes is there with him, in plainclothes too; he gives Breda a little nod.

“I figured you couldn’t be dating _this_ many women,” Breda tells Mustang as he sits down.

“We might need to actually hold an entire conversation over the phone next time. How’s your falsetto?”

“I can practice.” Breda flags a waitress and orders hot tea. He’s still carrying the cold from outside and needs something to warm his hands. “Do you assume all military lines are tapped?”

Hughes’ the one to answer. “It saves time.” He’s drinking mulled wine, but his grin’s sharp as anything. “Now, I don’t usually like to skip the small talk, but we have a lot to discuss and I have to get back tomorrow at dawn. Listen closely and please _don’t_ take any notes.”

He doesn’t list as many names as Breda dreamed, but still more than he hoped, starting with Lieutenant General Grumman, the _head_ of East City HQ—which explains a lot of things about how their squad’s been allowed to function. All of Mustang’s old squad from Ishbal, which doesn’t come as a surprise; but also Lieutenant Catalina and possibly her sergeants. Not many people in Central, but among them another State Alchemist, Major Armstrong, and potentially a lot of his subordinates, to be confirmed when the time comes.

Breda frowns. “Armstrong? Aren’t they a very old military family?”

“Yes, and that’s the only reason he wasn’t court-martialed after the civil war.” Hughes’ is tapping his long fingers on the rim of his glass. “They sent him back home when he started actively helping Ishbalans escape the battlefield.”

Breda sips his tea, keeping his eyes on him.

“None of this is confirmed, you understand. I’m just talking trends,” Hughes says. He goes on to list potential opponents. Mustang’s just stirring his coffee, letting them talk. Breda mostly listens. He has to listen. Those are the rules, the pieces, the players.

Eventually, the bar starts emptying up; when Breda checks his watch, it’s one in the morning.

“One thing,” Mustang says. It’s almost the first time he speaks tonight. “While I have you both here.”

Hughes tilts his head towards him, questioningly.

“It’s too early to tell for sure, but I may have scored even more points by recruiting a new State Alchemist. I’ve received a note about it a few days ago; I’m waiting on a second one to confirm his arrival.”

“An ally?” Hughes asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Someone I can control, in any case. Breda, what do you know about alchemy laws?”

Breda shrugs. “The basics. Equivalent exchange, don’t make gold, don’t make a person.”

“Right. As it happens, Mr. Elric and his brother tried and failed to make a person. I pointed out to them last year that army resources might help them fix the consequences of their mistake. The older brother recently sent me a letter saying he wanted to attend the next State Alchemist exam.”

Hughes doesn’t look particularly shocked so Breda does his level best to seem unimpressed, too. He’s lucky he’s good at that, because Mustang goes on: “He’s twelve years old, so I’ll be escorting him to Central personally.”

“Twelve?” Breda can’t help interjecting this time.

Hughes hums like he’s getting it. “If nothing else, he can add a little chaos to the mix.”

“They’d really hire a child? They’ve got height restrictions for adult men,” Breda points out. “Fuery barely got approved.”

“True, for the army. But we’re talking about State Alchemists.” Mustang still looks pretty blasé about the whole thing. “I guarantee you that for _this_ they’ll hire anyone who proves powerful enough.”

The bartender’s gathering up dirty glasses on a tray. They clink together as he walks back to the bar, a reminder it’s time to go. Mustang drops some bills on the table and Hughes pulls back his chair. Breda finishes his tea even though it’s gone cold, then follows suit.

They don’t shake hands afterwards, don’t even acknowledge each other on their way out, just go their own way into the dark night. Breda breathes in the sharp air and starts reviewing what he’s learned on his way home. Names, allegiances, political opinions. He’s got to fix it all in his mind. He’s got to know his game. He can never make a mistake again.

*

Mustang and Hawkeye escort the Elrics into Central for the State Alchemist exam. When they come back to the office three days later, sans Elrics and rosy-cheeked with cold, Mustang’s looking positively _cheerful._

“Welcome back, chief. What’d the kid do?” Havoc asks, because he’s still the savviest of them all.

“He attacked President Bradley. During the test.” Mustang can barely contain himself as he takes off his coat. “With a _spear.”_

“What?” Fuery says, aghast.

Falman is also looking up from his work. “I’m assuming the president’s alive?” he asks soberly.

“Unfortunately.”

“Colonel,” Hawkeye says, in an absent voice.

“Where did the spear come from?” Havoc wants to know.

“He synthetized it live.”

Breda raises an eyebrow. “So he’s good?”

Mustang gives him that smile again, the one he had when he got promoted. “I’m confident he passed.”

“What, after he attacked President Bradley?” Falman asks.

“Bradley said it was brave. I believe he found it funny.” Mustang seems to find it very funny too. He waves a hand. “In any case, Elric’s too powerful. They won’t let him get away.”

Breda raises his eyebrows, then goes back to the _Eastern Herald_ ; as an intelligence officer it’s his job to keep up with the news, which means he gets to enjoy his coffee and newspaper every morning with no disturbance. Of course there’s no mention of Edward Elric, not yet. But with him in mind, Breda notices the word _alchemy_ in a small paragraph mentioning a death in New Optain.

He reads it quickly, frowns, then digs out yesterday’s _East City Post_ from under a pile of files and folders and flips through it. If he remembers correctly—yes, there, a similar story. Two deaths this time, in Giribaz. Both alchemists. After a moment’s reflection, Breda sips some coffee then gets out a pair of scissors from his desk and carefully cuts out both articles, sliding them into an empty folder.

*

Two weeks later, Edward Elric reports to East City HQ to find out his results.

Breda’s the one who goes to get the brothers at the train station. It’s a slightly warmer day but the train’s late. When it finally arrives, he’s blowing warm air into his cupped hands, hoping that he won’t have any trouble spotting the kids.

He doesn’t, because one of them turns out to be seven feet tall.

“Edward Elric?” Breda asks.

The armored man—boy?—raises both hands in an apologetic gesture. His voice echoes strangely when he talks. “No, I’m sorry—I’m Alphonse. _This_ is Edward.”

Breda looks down at a kid with golden hair and yellow eyes, a searingly red coat and—oh, an automail hand. _The consequences of their mistake_ , Mustang said. Breda wonders what Alphonse’s armor is hiding that would be more noticeable than the armor itself.

Edward’s pulling on white gloves, looking annoyed that he didn’t think about it on the train, but when he’s done he thrusts his right hand forward like he’s determined to play this straight. They should salute instead, but Breda doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable and shakes his hand. Besides, the kid won’t be officially part of the army for another hour.

Breda introduces himself, then says, “I’ve got a car waiting. Let’s all get out of the cold.”

Alphonse takes up most of the backseat so Edward sits down next to Breda, looking at everything inside the car and poking a few things like he’s never been in one. Maybe he hasn’t, or not often.

“Not that I know anything about alchemy,” Breda says as he shifts gears, “but I do wonder what kind of research you need army funds for.”

Edward looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “Does that mean I passed?”

Breda can see Alphonse lean forward slightly in the rear mirror. It was too easy finding something they were interested in. Breda keeps on his bored face and says, “You didn’t hear that from me.”

Nothing like a little confidentiality break to build good relations, and it doesn’t fail this time around; Edward grins at him, delighted. “I won’t rat you out. Having Mustang as your boss must be bad enough already.”

“No comment,” Breda answers, which makes him outright snort.

He pulls up in front of HQ and gets out to walk around the car, but the Elrics are already out before he can hold the door open for them; either they’re not aware Breda’s technically Edward’s subordinate or they don’t care about hierarchy.

Breda nods at the marble stairs. “I have to return the car. Go on and ask for Mustang at the front desk.”

“Thank you for coming to get us,” Alphonse answers, and Edward even salutes this time.

Breda salutes back unhurriedly and watches them go up the steps, very aware that Edward’s completely avoided answering his question about his alchemical research, on top of openly criticizing Mustang to the face of one of his direct subordinates. When they disappear into the building, he allows himself a half-smile as he gets back into the car. Whatever else these kids turn out to mean in the grand scheme of things, they certainly won’t be boring.

*

On the eve of 1913, Breda’s mother dies, and Havoc drops his plans for the night to accompany him back home and help him deal with the funeral.

“I’m okay,” Breda says first thing when he meets up with Havoc at the train station. He knows his face is stuck at its most surly. “She was very old. She’d been sick for a while.”

“Of course.” Havoc was obviously going to answer that whatever Breda said.

They’re taking the 9pm train to Dalen; the night is completely still, lit up only by a couple of orange lights along the platform. Havoc’s bluish smoke is rising straight up into the air. Breda can hear the tiny sizzling sound it makes when he draws on his cigarette. If he focuses on it, he almost manages to think about nothing else.

Then a whistle slices through the air and there’s the locomotive, rounding the bend.

“Shouldn’t take long,” Breda says at it draws near. All around them, travelers are standing up from benches, folding up newspapers, picking up their luggage. “We’ll be back by Monday.”

“S’alright if we’re not,” Havoc says. “The colonel said take as long as you need.”

The train gets into the station, belching white steam that vanishes up into the dark.

“Won’t Anneke miss you?”

“Doubt it, she dumped me.” Havoc crushes his stub underfoot then pats Breda’s back. “See, some people have it worse than you.”

Breda manages to answer “Yeah, don’t know why I’m complaining,” instead of asking Havoc if he got dumped for cancelling his New Year’s date. It doesn’t matter. He should be thinking about his mother right now, but he _doesn’t_ want to think about it, and Havoc’s right there. He always is.

Some people do have it worse than Breda—much worse.

*

“How are you doing, lieutenant?” Mustang asks on Monday morning.

“Ready to go back to work, sir.”

Mustang looks at him for a moment, then nods. “Very well. You’ll find the updated Belders file waiting for you.”

“Thanks.” The Belders file is massive, complex and boring. Sounds like exactly what he needs right now. With any luck, this’ll be a quiet day.

A few hours later the office’s full of people coming and going, setting up radio comms, getting ready to deal with yet another terrorist attack. This time, it’s on a train. There are hostages. One of the hostages is Major General Halcrow. It’s never a quiet day.

Breda’s glad for the agitation, really; at least everyone’s stopped saying _sorry for your loss_ every time they so much as came within ten feet of him. Havoc does try to catch his eye sometimes but they’re all too busy and there’s nothing to say, anyway; his mother’s buried, he’s back at the office, life’s moving on already.

He’s drawn Falman and Fuery to his desk to pore over a railway map and discuss potential rerouting when Mustang suddenly interrupts them all: “Hold it. Looks like we’ll be able to leave sooner than we thought.” He waves the passengers list at them, smiling. “The Fullmetal’s on that train.”

“Edward?” Breda raises an eyebrow. “So what—it’s not like he can stop seven terrorists by himself.”

An hour later, Edward’s stopped seven terrorists by himself, and Mustang’s gone to the train station with Havoc and Hawkeye flanking him, probably just to show off. He and the Fullmetal seem engaged in a constant game of competitive peacocking, and Breda can’t tell if it’s a personality thing or a professional thing—they’re both State Alchemists and it sometimes shows in the way they think, the way they approach problems. But also one of them is fourteen, and the other seems to enjoy childish bickering a bit too much.

Breda, Falman and Fuery stay behind to pack up the office; and sure, it’s less stressful than monitoring a hostage situation, but overtime is still overtime, and he doesn’t sleep well. The next evening, Breda stays late again, covering for Havoc who’s off to get the Elrics from Shou Tucker’s house: a State Alchemist gets at least a second lieutenant as his chauffeur.

The evening after that, they’re all on extra special overtime working on the Tucker chimera incident. And the evening after _that_ they’re all here again, this time working on the Tucker double homicide.

Edward shows up at the office demanding to see the bodies, and they’re all glad Hawkeye takes it upon herself to send him away. When she comes back from the scene, she calls Breda to her desk. “I need you to open a new file.”

“If it’s about those alchemist murders, it won’t be a new one.” Breda gives her the folder he’d started a few weeks ago.

Hawkeye quickly skims the clippings, then takes a pen and writes SCAR on the cover before handing it back. “Good work. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes’ here, by the way. He’d come for Tucker’s arrest, originally. You should meet with him before he leaves, coordinate whatever information you have on Scar.”

Just then Hughes himself walks into the room, followed by Mustang and a man Breda recognizes because he can identify all of the people Hughes’ named as potential allies; he’s spent a lot of time flipping through army group photos and he keeps the roster updated in his head. This is Major Armstrong, and Breda wishes he weren’t so tired for their first meeting, but something’s wrong, anyway; there’s no time for introductions. Mustang just asks, “The Elrics—where are they?”

“I’ve just sent them away,” Hawkeye begins, and then doesn’t finish her sentence because Mustang’s expression makes it clear it’s time to _go._

As they all hurry down the marble stairs, leaving only Fuery and Falman to hold down the fort, Hawkeye’s radio starts sizzling. _The Elric brothers are engaged in combat on the corner of Coppermine Road and…_

A few short minutes later Breda’s standing under the rain, aiming a gun at the very object of his file. Well, damn—fastest investigation of his life. Scar’s a tall man, powerfully built, wearing sunglasses and a deep scowl. Breda kicks his exhausted brain into gear and endeavors to catalogue every detail he can about him, then relegates them all to a footnote when Hawkeye shoots the sunglasses off and a big bolded ISHBAL stamps across Breda’s mental page.

Mustang, Hawkeye and Hughes all look—well. Like they’ve seen a ghost. But a ghost they know.

Breda subconsciously lowers his weapon and feels a slight shock when everyone else stays on alert. He rights his gun—of course they have to, because Edward’s kneeling behind Scar, his right arm blown apart—they have to help him, and Alphonse is blown _open_ , and—that armor’s empty.

 _Okay_ , Breda thinks, and files that away too.

Scar manages to escape, which is a relief for everyone involved. Breda doesn’t feel right, even after he lowers his gun, and he knows if they’d killed him he would be feeling worse. He can’t really tell why. It’s not like _he_ participated in the Ishbal war; he shouldn’t have such a strong reaction to seeing a survivor, one who’s obviously out for revenge, too. He chalks it up to the stress of the situation. He’s not a field officer, he’s not used to actually pulling a weapon on someone. _Havoc_ doesn’t look upset. Then again, he never does, just tends to smoke more.

After the Elrics’ various bits and pieces have been gathered up, after they’ve all gone back to HQ to feed Breda’s folder which about triples in size, after they’ve set up rounds and patrols and finally clocked out for the night, Breda leaves the building and Havoc falls into step with him. Without a word they head for the nearest bar together.

“Sorry we didn’t get a chance to do that yesterday,” Havoc says, sitting down. “Or the day before that.”

“We’ve been busy.” Breda orders some beer for them both.

After they get their pints, Havoc asks, “Did you notice Alphonse?”

“Hard not to.”

“How is that _possible_ , a thing like that?”

“Ask him. You know more about alchemy than I do, anyway.”

“No, I don’t.” Havoc smiles. “You can do one. Student’s Array.”

“Oh, right.” Breda draws a small, simplistic array on the table with spilled beer, then presses two fingers in the middle. There’s a tiny crackle and a layer shaves off the wooden surface inside the circle, remodeling itself into a minuscule bird. It’s just a party trick, something he did to show off at the academy barracks. “There you go. Now give me my State Alchemist license.”

Havoc looks at the bird for a moment, then says, “So how are you doing, anyway?”

Breda wipes the beer array off the table; his creation crumbles into a pile of wood shavings. He didn’t do it right, he can’t think straight. “Fine as ever. Don’t worry about me.”

Havoc lights up a new cigarette and says, “I never do.”

*

Breda’s seen the pictures of the bodies, so he tries his damnedest to find Scar before Scar finds anyone else. He makes good use of both Falman and Fuery’s talents the next day, sends out half a dozen patrols on carefully constructed paths, has them report to him every half-hour. The day brings nothing at all, but he doesn’t want to give up, stays on overtime yet again even after everyone else has left, the only light still on in the office, reviewing the massive file until his brain finally grinds to a complete halt.

And in the sudden silence of his thoughts, a single question emerges: why is he doing this?

Breda doesn’t get seduced easily. In fact it’s only ever happened to him once. But now Mustang’s drawn him in—it would be foolish to deny it. Breda’s been working for him long enough that he’s stopped asking himself why. He thinks about Hughes, that night at the bar, making him feel part of a network, a growing web, telling him he belongs, he can make a difference. Then Breda thinks about Scar standing in the rain, glaring at them all with his burning red stare. Like a wake-up call, a sudden shock of adrenaline: seen, uncovered, exposed. Breda’s wearing their uniform. He’s using their weapons.

He looks down at the file. He’s trying so hard to catch and kill this man. _Why did you get into the army?_ The taste of kayatef at the Ishbalan Market. Himelstein pressing the book into his hands when he asked for answers, for something else. And then Mustang burning the book to ashes…

“Are you all right, Lieutenant Breda?”

He reopens his eyes—didn’t realize he’d closed them—and finds himself looking up at Hawkeye, standing in the doorway, shadowed by the hallway lights.

“I didn’t realize you were still here,” he says after a few seconds.

There’s a dismantled gun on Hawkeye’s desk, one she didn’t have time to put back together because of an urgent call earlier. She draws a chair close, sits down and starts reassembling it methodically.

Breda stares at his file for a moment. Then he looks back up at Hawkeye. “Can I ask you something? Why did you choose to follow Mustang?”

 _Clack._ She’s already done. The gun goes into her holster, swiftly; she shifts the harness back into place. “Because he can only be shot from the back.”

Breda frowns, startled. Then he huffs. “So you don’t trust him?”

“On the contrary. He’s the one who made sure I had such a good vantage point. Just in case.” She meets his eyes. “You must know that feeling.”

Right, Breda thinks. He feels like his body’s winding down; like he’s only just realizing how deeply tired he is. Mustang didn’t just risk his own life one time, that night at Breda’s apartment. He risked it for every day after that. Breda could turn him in. Hell, Havoc could, too. Falman and Fuery, if they’ve figured it out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He scrubs his hand across his face. “I’ve just…”

“I’m glad to hear you haven’t stopped questioning what’s around you,” Hawkeye interrupts. She can clearly see what file he’s working on. “That’s what you’re here for.”

She gets up.

“If you feel you have a choice to make, you’re free to make it. Just make sure it’s final. And don’t take too long.”

Breda looks at her, then nods and salutes, properly for once. She salutes back, then bids him good night, collects her coat and leaves.

He looks back down at his file. The list of people Scar’s killed is right there. Some of his targets weren’t part of the war at all. It reminds him of another list, Hughes’ smile at the bar. _Don’t take any notes._ Patiently paving the way to the top. Mustang keeping them all at his back, in his blind spot.

Breda closes the folder and gets up, too. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since his mother’s funeral. It’s time to go home.

*

He takes a sick day and spends most of it asleep. The next morning, he doesn’t exactly feel _great_ , but at least his brain doesn’t feel like scrambled eggs anymore. He sits on his bed in his undershirt, looks at the invisible patterns his mind’s drawing in the air. The Ishbal war is what pushed him into the army; now an Ishbal’s in the way. He always knew this wouldn’t be about easy choices.

He _has_ been seduced. But if Havoc’s example is anything to go by, Breda knows how to fall for good people—if not the right people. In another life he might have joined the Eastern Liberation Front; in another life it might have been him who got shot dead by Havoc behind the Grand Eastern Hotel. In this life Breda’s still alive, and he’s in Mustang’s squad, and they’re getting closer.

Someone knocks.

“Coming,” Breda calls.

It’s Havoc, in uniform, already smoking despite the very early hour. “Hey. Hawkeye said you might be taking a couple of days off. I came to see how you were doing.”

People wonder how Breda got so good at hiding his emotions. If he told them, they’d laugh at him. “Thought you never worried about me,” he replies.

“Didn’t say I was worried.” Havoc waves a brown bag at him. It’s grease-stained and smells delicious, buttery and warm. “I can’t stay, but I brought you breakfast.”

Just then, Breda realizes Hawkeye was wrong. He doesn’t actually have a choice to make, because he’s already made it. And he knows how it goes. No, he doesn’t get seduced easily; but once it’s happened he never falls out of love.

“Give me a minute to get dressed,” he says, “I’ll eat on the way to HQ,” and Havoc smiles, and leans against the door to finish his cigarette while he waits for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading please donate a comment to the Heymans Breda Foundation for Permanent Resting Bitch Face Disease
> 
> next chapter: we're going to Central lads


	4. Chapter 4

After Maes Hughes’ death, Mustang forgets to put on his persona for a week.

He’s clearly aware of it, working on it; at times he splinters back into a careless attitude, an ironic smile, and the next moment he’s gone under again, dark and abrupt. Havoc never really got to know Hughes, but he’s aware he and Mustang fought together during the civil war. When asked, Falman delicately says he believes they were also in the same year at the academy, and Havoc gets a flash of Breda bleeding to death in a phone booth.

It’s not just that Hughes is gone; it’s that he was murdered two streets from HQ, trying his damnedest to call Mustang from a civilian line. This means they’re getting dangerously close to _something_ —a feeling Havoc doesn’t like at all, like groping around in opaque waters for slimy things that keep wiggling out of his fingers. At times like these, he’s glad he’s a field officer. Not that he particularly enjoys maneuvering with the northern troops for a month straight or having to look at the blown-up bodies of Scar’s victims; but there are weeks where Breda just _disappears_ , and when he comes back Havoc can’t ask where he was, or what he did, or whether people tried to kill him.

“What are you talking about,” Breda says one day when it’s just the two of them spending yet another evening at his place. “You worked both field and intel for months after Markel bailed. You can do covert.”

“It’s not about covert.” This time he’s the one who put his feet up on the crate. “It’s more about… borrowing trouble.”

That really is the word, _borrowing trouble_ : actively asking around, tapping people on the shoulder, asking if they have any to spare. Breda always anticipates what could go wrong, and sometimes gets caught up in it; but that’s what makes him so good at his job. Hughes was good, too, so good he must have seen the endgame coming—right before it killed him.

Havoc prefers to take things as they come. Not thinking much further than the next step is what makes him good at _his_ job. The passivity that comes with being a field officer also means it’s easier to separate life and work; he’s happy to forget about the office every time he clocks out for the day. It’s how he keeps steady.

In this regard too, Breda’s the exact opposite, sidestepping the issue by not having any life to speak of. Nothing he could lose, maybe. It shows in his apartment, still bare bones after four years. Havoc knows he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on—he’s the one living in military barracks, but at least he’s got a few postcards on his wall, a few trinkets on his nightstand. Breda’s walls are completely blank and all of his rickety furniture was there when he moved in. The day Havoc really _looked_ at that apartment, he stopped suggesting Breda start dating. This isn’t the place of someone looking to share his life with anybody.

Still, it’s nice enough when they’re sitting around together like that with a couple of beers, especially on the evenings where the lights are turned down low and the night’s so mild they can open the window for Havoc to smoke. Spring’s coming back around. Everything always changes in the spring.

*

“Are you done packing?” Hawkeye asks.

“Yeah, it didn’t take me that long.” He’s going to miss the East, inevitably; it’s where he’s always lived. But Mustang’s announcement felt just as inevitable. It’s what they’d been working towards this whole time.

Hawkeye’s trying out the new Gelting TK 1913. Havoc is a man of habit and grabbed his usual M15 rifle. He’s in the lane next to hers; they often schedule themselves for target practice together, with short bursts of conversation between bouts of shooting. When he’s done, at about the same time she is, Havoc flips the big Bakelite switch on the left. The paper target slides forward jerkily on its ceiling rail, coming closer and closer.

Hawkeye glances at Havoc’s performance. “Solid 87. Good job.”

All her bullet holes are in the middle circle, a near-perfect 100. Havoc smiles and unhooks his target to switch it out for a fresh one. “Thanks.”

When they’re done, they flip the switch again and the targets jerk back, farther and farther away until they lock back into place at the end of the range. The conducting officer walks past behind them, nodding hello to Hawkeye who nods back.

“Did you tell Aniela you were leaving?” she asks Havoc.

“Aw, don’t remind me. She was annoyed, mostly—we haven’t even dated long enough for her to be sad.” He picks up his rifle and clacks the barrel open to reload. “Can you slip Mustang some of my paperwork when he’s not looking?”

“That seems doable,” she answers seriously, and he smiles again and takes aim for another round.

*

The train whistles so sharply Havoc startles awake. His breath has been fogging up the window, the glass cold against his cheek. He straightens up and winces when he feels the crick in his neck. Breda’s just across from him, gently swaying along with the train’s regular motion, reading a paperback.

“You ever been to Central?” Havoc asks when he’s done stretching his neck.

Breda doesn’t look up. “Mm.”

Outside the train window, the telephone line bounces from pole to pole. Pale green fields unroll as far as the eye can see; trees and cows swoop by. Havoc waits for Breda to realize he hasn’t actually answered the question.

“Once,” Breda says eventually. “Nothing special about it.” He flips a page. “All cities look the same in this country.”

“Anything in particular you’d like to know about Central?” Falman asks Havoc, ever helpful.

“Thanks, but not really.”

Mustang and Hawkeye are traveling first class, because Mustang’s a colonel, or maybe because he’s a State Alchemist, or maybe just because he has a medical condition and simply cannot bear anything less than luxury. The rest of them are slumming it together on cracked leather seats; Fuery’s napping with his folded jacket as a pillow, small enough that he can actually lie down with his knees up. Sitting next to Breda, Falman hasn’t even opened his jacket, always anxious when it comes to regulation. He does look like he wishes he could imitate Fuery.

When the conductor walks up the corridor announcing _Central Station! Central Station!_ , Havoc’s the first to get up and grab his duffel bag, vaguely hoping he’ll have time for a cigarette before they hustle to HQ. Fuery stretches, yawns, sits up. “Are we there already?”

Breda’s in no hurry, pocketing his book before anything else. Falman’s up, getting his bag from the rack. Stepping into the corridor, Havoc looks out the window and spots a dozen military policemen waiting on the platform.

“Huh. We’ve got a welcome committee. Is that standard?”

“They’re here to carry your luggage,” Breda says behind him. “You always forget you’re an officer.”

The brakes engage for good, starting to scream at a slow-motion rising pitch. Fuery winces; he’s so young he can probably hear ultrasound. Havoc’s still looking out the window. Beyond rows of empty train tracks, there’s their first view of Central, all squat brick buildings. Breda’s right, it doesn’t look very different from East City.

“Will you guys stick to barracks here?” Havoc asks.

Falman’s contemplating the distant buildings too. “Maybe I’ll get an apartment this time.”

“We all should,” Breda says. “Get places of our own.”

They all look at him. He’s got his usual peeved look on his face; not at them, but at the world at large.

Yeah, Havoc thinks, turning back to the view. For all that it looks like anywhere else, this _is_ Central. Soon they’ll all have things to hide.

*

The new office is smaller but higher up, bathed with cold morning light and saturated with the smell of cleaning products. When they come in, the military police’s still in the process of bringing up all their boxes. Havoc puts down the one he brought up himself and begins unpacking; next to Fuery’s electronics and Falman and Breda’s massive amounts of files, he doesn’t have a lot, so he starts on Hawkeye’s stuff when he’s done.

She and Mustang appear an hour later in full parade uniforms, back from the welcome ceremony. Hawkeye closes the door behind them and Mustang distractedly tugs off his plain white gloves.

“Was the president there?” Breda asks without preamble.

“Of course. We got the usual speech.” Mustang pulls up a chair and sits down. He doesn’t look tired; if anything, the look on his face is sharper than it was that morning when they boarded the train. “Havoc, Breda, you’re to report tomorrow at 9am sharp for your briefing on the cases we’ll be assigned.”

“Who’s doing the briefing?” Breda asks.

“For you, it’ll be Major Dietrich.” Mustang’s dark eyes drift towards the closed door. “He got promoted after Hughes’ death. Lieutenant Colonel Forveilles is now leading the CBI.”

Breda says, “I see,” and nothing else.

Havoc briefly remembers a shiny black car down in the courtyard while he stood there trying to decide whether he could trust Mustang. Mechanically, he gets out a cigarette and lights it up; it’s a relief when he blows out smoke and nobody says anything. He thought maybe they’d object now that they’re in Central HQ. Looks like he’ll be able to do away with that artificial pine scent in no time.

“And who’s going to brief me?” he asks.

The door bangs open. “ _Good evening to you all!”_

“Hello, Major Armstrong,” Mustang answers, sounding much more tired all of a sudden.

Armstrong, taller and balder than ever, looks as always like he’s straining the seams on his uniform. He swivels around like a particularly large Aerugan Pointer and exclaims: “Lieutenant Havoc! I was _delighted_ to hear you’d be joining us here. My sister still speaks highly of your joint maneuvers in the East.”

Because they’re all dirty cowards, all the others suddenly busy themselves with their boxes. Hawkeye does give Havoc a polite nod in thanks for unpacking her things, and then abandons him to his fate; even Mustang vaguely pretends to shuffle the folders on his desk, though he doesn’t go as far as to get up from his chair.

“I know you’re going to do excellent work here, simply _excellent_. Are you done unpacking?”

“I…”

“Yes, he is,” Falman answers—then withers under Havoc’s glare; the man just can’t help his knee-jerk reflex whenever someone’s asking a question to which he knows the answer. Next to him, putting away folders, Breda looks bored and surly as always, but Havoc knows him well enough to tell when the bastard’s laughing at him.

“ _Fantastic._ ” Armstrong seems to be swelling up by the second. “Come with me, lieutenant, I’ll give you the tour right away.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Major—”

“Nonsense. It is my _duty_ to make you feel welcome here in Central. My family’s lived here for generations!”

And then a miracle occurs: Mustang speaks out. “Sorry, Major, but I still need Havoc tonight. He’ll be all yours tomorrow.”

“Really! Well. In that case.” Armstrong slams a massive hand down on Havoc’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Don’t be late! Much to do!”

With a hearty collarbone-bruising squeeze, he strides out like he’s off to conquer the entire floor.

Havoc looks at Mustang, who smiles at him innocently: “What? Don’t look so suspicious.”

“Oh, I’m supposed to believe that was out of the kindness of your heart?” Havoc draws on his cigarette. “What _do_ you need me for?”

*

Surprisingly, the answer is: drinks.

It’s the first time Havoc’s seen them all out of uniform together like that. Not that they really pass as civilians—they just grabbed whatever they could without fully gutting their luggage, so Hawkeye’s wearing a black turtleneck over a military skirt, Falman and Breda have kept their uniform shirts on with a suit jacket over them, and Fuery’s thrown on a khaki sweater. Mustang, who’s perfectly elegant in his white button-down and dark vest, leads them to a place he must have spotted on his previous times in Central.

Inside it’s warm and noisy, not the kind of select lounge bar Havoc expected. It’s unclear whether Mustang wants to establish his sparklingly unbearable persona early on, or if he genuinely wished for them to celebrate this milestone together. Knowing him, it’s probably both.

They get a table and order pints, except for Fuery who mysteriously picks a glass of red wine, then protests that he doesn’t like fizzy drinks when they ask him why. Falman doesn’t look enthused by the drinking itself but can’t help the smile on his face when they all knock their glasses together, and starts relaxing halfway down his beer. Breda’s looking gruff as always, but Havoc knows he grins a lot when he’s drunk and can’t wait for him to be on his third pint. Hawkeye seems like an entirely different person with her hair down; she’s eyeing Mustang like she can’t wait for _him_ to be on his third pint. Mustang’s just smiling in a way he hasn’t since Hughes’ death.

*

For all that he dreaded his briefing, Havoc’s got to admit Armstrong is a nice enough guy once you’ve gotten used to him a little; and he’s surprisingly insightful when it comes to what makes people tick, which is a great help for making fast friends. Within a week, half of HQ knows Havoc by name and he’s already trading favors left and right.

“Everyone always likes you, Havoc,” Breda says at the mess, reading a report while eating a chicken sandwich. “Don’t see why that would change here.”

“Sergeant Bethmal told me her cousin’s got an empty apartment on Main Avenue if you’re interested, by the way.”

“I’ll find my own, but thanks.”

Havoc wants to ask whether that’s paranoia or reasonable doubt, but the question feels stupid before it’s even left his mouth, so he just says the next thing that pops into his head. “Or we could live together.”

Breda looks up from his report. “What?”

“Yeah. Why not?” Havoc’s vague idea is coalescing into something with more substance. “Rent’s higher in Central, and we need to stick together. Might as well share…”

Breda’s already shaking his head. “Not a good idea, Havoc.”

“How come?”

“It’s just not.” He closes his folder. “If something goes wrong for one of us the other will be affected too.”

“Right,” Havoc says. That does make sense. Breda’s getting up, cramming the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. “You’re leaving already?”

“Got a meeting in fifteen.” He looks annoyed, but then again, he always does. “I’ll see you later.”

After he’s gone, Havoc eats alone for all of two minutes before someone lands at his table. He doesn’t look up. “Colonel.”

“Lieutenant.” Mustang grabs a tangerine off his tray. “How are you settling in?”

“Pretty good.”

“Seems like you’ve made a lot of friends already.”

“Everyone here’s awful nice,” Havoc answers, leaning into his accent. “The army’s really just a big family, you know. Private named Sciezka says Lieutenant Colonel Hughes hired her personally a few months ago.”

Mustang doesn’t stop peeling his tangerine, carefully, in a single spiraling piece. “Is that so? I’ll have to meet her and exchange condolences.”

“She says that he really helped her out. That she hadn’t had a job for years before that.” Havoc opens his chocolate pudding cup. “Apparently they met through Edward Elric.”

“Hmm. And if Hughes hired her for his own department…”

“Yeah, she works under Forveilles, now. Seems she’s got a memory like Falman’s; they put her to work sorting and filing investigation reports.”

Mustang splits the tangerine in half, then in quarters. Havoc takes a spoonful of pudding; it almost tastes like real chocolate. The Central HQ mess is pretty decent overall.

They busy themselves with eating for a little while, then Mustang sips some water from his mug and says: “Tell me, lieutenant, have you found a new girlfriend yet? I feel bad, you know.”

Havoc frowns. “Haven’t really had time for…”

“Of course. Let me make it up to you—tonight, if you’re free.”

That’s got to be the most ominous order Havoc ever received.

*

When Havoc realizes exactly in _which_ district of Central they are, it’s too late. Mustang breezes past three ladies of the night with a cheerful wave, black coat flaring in his wake, and Havoc has no choice but to follow him up the steps of Madame Christmas’ Red Velvet Paradise. He can’t tell whether the fact he’s still in uniform makes it better or worse.

 _“Roy!”_ The nearest girl flings herself into Mustang’s arms with unrestrained delight. “It’s been so _long!”_

“Now that I’m settled in Central, you can see me every day, Kitty,” Mustang promises. “Now, where’s my lovely Candi? _There_ she is!”

He’s already getting dragged away to a booth by three girls at once. The hostess bar is full of young, beautiful women whose giggles blend with the crystalline tinkle of their jewelry. Havoc knows he’s a little wall-eyed, but he feels nobody could blame him here. The matron behind the bar smirks at him. “What are you drinking, handsome?”

“Just… give me your favorite,” he says. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Knock yourself out.” She gets out a cigarette of her own and lights it up with a match that she quickly shakes off. Her nails are painted a very dark red. “And tell you what, since our Roy boy brought you along, first one’s on the house.”

Havoc settles at the bar and gets a puzzlingly pink cocktail for his trouble. A slim brunette perches on the stool next to him and puts her chin in her hand. “And what will it be _besides_ drinks, officer?”

She’s got a nice smile and a vertiginous neckline. He sighs. “Some conversation would be nice, I guess.”

“Oh? Didn’t peg you for the type.”

“No offense meant. I’m just not feeling up for much else with my CO around.”

“All joking aside, you must be Havoc,” interrupts the matron, bringing the brunette a whiskey neat.

“Chris, you’re just _no fun,”_ Mustang calls out from his booth.

Madame Christmas ignores him. “Four times he’s done this already,” she tells Havoc. “The skinny one didn’t get it for a full five minutes.”

Havoc resists the urge to go dump his very pink cocktail on Mustang’s head. “How do I rank?” he asks instead.

“Decent,” the brunette answers graciously. “The kid with glasses was pretty confused too. But the red-haired guy wasn’t fooled for a second.”

Well, at least Breda and his best unimpressed look were there to salvage the squad’s collective dignity. “And Hawkeye?”

“Riza? She’s a card. Funniest woman I’ve ever met,” Christmas says, absolutely deadpan. “You should go and join your boss, lieutenant. I’m afraid that’s your only date for tonight.”

Havoc grabs his glass, because it would be rude not to, nods at the women who just left Mustang’s booth and takes their place. “You know, people have quit for less.”

“Don’t be like that,” Mustang says, all smiles. “You got a free drink out of it.”

*

That little visit to Madame Christmas’ bar clears up a lot of things Havoc still didn’t quite get about Mustang, and easily quadruples the size of their informant network. It does also keep him from stepping foot in a hostess bar ever again—not that it was ever really a habit of his, anyway. Breda’s intensely practical night life might be more upset by this state of affairs, though Havoc’s pretty sure by now he goes for the male option, if anything. That’s not really the kind of stuff they talk about.

They do need informants, because the circumstances of Hughes’ death aren’t getting any clearer. They know there’s a conspiracy involving some members of the army, possibly at a very high level; they know it’s connected to the Philosopher’s Stone, and not much else. Past their first week in Central, Mustang’s temporary burst of animation fades back into a darker mood. They can all tell he’s not sleeping enough, but there’s not much they can do about it except keep working the case on top of their official business.

One evening Mustang answers the office phone with, “Lieutenant Hawkeye? Isn’t it your day off?”

He listens intently for a little while, then hangs up.

“Havoc. Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, they’re driving down Baskool Avenue in Mustang’s car when he says, “Here—turn right.”

They end up in a narrow alley with low double doors opening on the back of a laundry shop. Through the service entrance Havoc can see rows of clothing on racks, pressed and cleaned, all of them labeled.

“My sister’s,” Mustang explains, which means nothing much. “Useful spot for a quick change. Get out of uniform, we can’t get noticed.”

When he got out of bed today, Havoc didn’t think he’d spend his evening undressing in a back alley with his boss. He unbuckles his overcoat and says, “Your side projects are getting shadier by the day, chief.”

Mustang just smiles and unbuttons his shirt. Within minutes, they’re in civvies—Havoc just grabbed whatever dark clothes looked like they’d fit him, and Mustang’s made handsome choices that somehow look perfectly tailored on him, as usual. Must be a city boy thing, since Breda tends to dress like that too. Havoc has no idea whether they’ll bring back the clothes or if Mustang’s sister will just tell her clients that mistakes happen.

They get back in the car and Havoc drives them to an industrial zone as per Mustang’s directions. Hawkeye’s there, sitting on a bench waiting for them, next to what looks suspiciously like an animated armor that’s decidedly not Alphonse Elric.

“Wish I could say that’s a new one,” Havoc mutters, pulling up.

Mustang’s already opening the door to step out. “We can’t stay on the street. Take a look around and try to find an empty warehouse we can use.”

Havoc spots a likely place within five minutes. After getting everyone inside, he stands guard at the door, listening to the hushed conversation filtering through. When the armor starts protesting he’s the disembodied soul of a serial killer, mentioning pell-mell the Elrics, the Philosopher’s Stone and the military scientific branch, Mustang comes back to Havoc and says the only reasonable thing he could in those circumstances: “Get Falman here. We need a fact check.”

*

The next day, Breda asks why Falman’s not coming into work and looks more annoyed than ever as he listens to the answer. “What’s the point of being an intelligence officer if I’m the last one to find out about these things.”

“Well, sometimes we have to do things before you find out about them,” Havoc points out. The office’s emptied out for lunch. He’s at the window, ostensibly to smoke; lately they’ve been having more and more of these informal debriefs. “I don’t think Falman’s too happy with the situation either.”

“Hmm. But he’s fully implicated, now.” Breda looks outside the window. “Fine by me. Feels like the right time to be closing ranks.”

Havoc draws on his cigarette.

After a few seconds, Breda asks: “Did you tell Mustang about Sciezka?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just—” Breda looks unhappy even by his standards. “I’m pretty sure Mustang’s using her to retrace Hughes’ investigation.”

“Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do?”

“Not like that. Not from the _inside_.” He huffs through his nose. “If Mustang keeps losing at chess, it’s because he hasn’t got any patience, you know.”

*

The next day, Havoc leaves the office just in time to see the last bus disappear around the corner. This always happens when he’s on the evening shift, so he doesn’t even swear anymore, just mournfully lights a cigarette and prepares for the long walk home. The apartment he found isn’t anywhere close to HQ.

“There’s going to be another one, you know,” says a woman getting to the bus stop.

“Another bus?” He takes a closer look at the glass panel behind her. “Timetable says…”

“It’s outdated, but they’ve never gotten around to replace it. The actual last bus should be here in five minutes.”

Havoc sits down next to her on the bench and crushes out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. It’s beyond him now not to smoke at the office, but he can at least make an effort in public. “Thank you so much. I don’t know about these things—I’m still kind of new in town.”

“Really.” She’s got a slow, unhurried smile Havoc likes a lot. She tucks a strand of silky black hair behind her ear and says, “Tell me more.”

*

Havoc knows he’s accrued a reputation for being a serial dater, but really he’s only had four serious girlfriends in the past five years. Every time, they broke up for reasons that were beyond his control, obligations he couldn’t or wouldn’t escape. He’s just been pretty unlucky with women overall.

But when he meets someone new, all the bad memories fall away: it’s a whole new possible future every time. Solaris seems like an old soul, always slightly detached even in her smiles. She accepts everything he gives her—flowers, a kiss on the cheek, an excuse for being late—with the same serenity. Her poise and patience are such a welcome change from the increasing tension at the office; being with her makes Havoc feel like he can relax a little. Let down his guard.

Falman could probably use a girlfriend of his own, because being locked up with Barry is clearly starting to fray at his nerves. This is all so new for him; he’s only ever been a desk officer. It’s so strange seeing him open the door in rumpled civvies, unshaven and tense, complaining openly about his situation. Still, when he realizes there’s a gun in the food basket Havoc brought him, he doesn’t blink and just tucks it in the back of his pants.

And he’s still Falman, meticulous-minded and hungry for new information to process. “Don’t you have _any_ other news? Anything at all?”

The problem is that Havoc’s under direct orders to keep him in the dark as much as possible; if this whole thing goes south they’ll have to claim Barry kidnapped him, which will inevitably lead to his interrogation by Forveilles. Nothing beats genuine ignorance in that kind of situation.

“Sorry, Falman.” Havoc looks outside the window. The courtyard’s big and imperfectly square, with an old pigeon house looming in the distance; no one can look directly into Falman’s apartment. Breda would be proud. “It’s not going to last forever—things are moving faster than they used to.”

Falman scrubs his hand over his face. “I can’t believe I got myself into this…”

“Shouldn’t have given Mustang an inch.”

On the other side of the room, Barry’s poking the chess board again; he seems surprisingly content just sitting around all day doing nothing. Knowing his history, this is probably like a vacation for him. Falman looks over at him, then sighs. “He did try to give me an out. The colonel, I mean.”

And of course he didn’t take it; they’ve all followed Mustang this far. None of them would turn back now. The reminder seems to help Falman settle.

“I gotta go,” Havoc says, finishing his cigarette. “I’ll be back in a couple of days. Hang in there, all right? Try not to worry.”

Falman walks him to the door. “I do worry about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You heard what Mustang asked Barry about, didn’t you? That night in the warehouse.”

Mustang asked Barry about a lot of things, but Havoc knows exactly which one Falman means. _Did you murder a military officer in a phone booth a little over a month ago?_

It’s the same thing Breda was worrying about. Havoc gets why people would be afraid for Mustang, if his grief’s still that fresh. He also gets why people might be afraid _of_ Mustang, if they believe he’s losing sight of his greater goal.

Havoc’s not complicated enough for that, though. “It’ll be fine. He’s good at control, too.”

Falman sighs again. “I know. I know.”

*

Two days later Mustang burns Maria Ross alive in a back alley.

That’s what they’re going with, anyway. It all happens very quickly; Mustang gets a call at the office and suddenly they’re leaving HQ, making a beeline for the nearest phone booth. By the time he hangs up, Mustang has a list of ingredients for Breda to gather and an address for Havoc in the warehouse district.

“Through the wall?” Havoc repeats as he listens to Mustang’s instructions. “I need a pickaxe or something.”

“Here—use this.” Breda tears a piece of paper from the phone book and scribbles something onto it. Mustang glances at it over his shoulder and says, “Oh, yes, that’ll do the trick.”

Havoc takes the paper. He recognizes the Student’s Array, but he’s pretty sure there’s a missing glyph. Between the three of them, he’s hardly the most qualified to point it out, so he doesn’t ask any questions and just pockets it. Mustang and Breda head off in one direction, Havoc in the other.

When he gets to the right address, he looks around to make sure he’s alone then picks up a piece of red brick and carefully draws the Student’s Array on the wall, checking the paper several times for reference. He’s never really done alchemy before but Breda’s explained the math for this one array enough times and, as soon as he’s done, the whole area inside the circle seems to change texture, to become tactile, alive.

Activating it just comes naturally. The discharge crackles at him, sending an unpleasant shock into his fingers—is that why they all wear gloves? While he shakes the feeling out of his hand, a layer of brick peels off, but doesn’t wrap itself up into a bird. Instead it just crumbles into dust. Breda gave him a faulty version that stops at the deconstruction step—maybe he got the idea from Scar.

Havoc repeats the process enough times that he can finish breaking through the brick with a few good kicks. Crawling through the hole, he ends up in the back alley Mustang described—he broke through the right wall on his first try, hurray. He spots a metallic dumpster, draws the array again at the back and activates it enough times that a hole rusts through the metal. Then he pushes the dumpster over to cover the breach in the wall.

When he looks up, there’s a car coming—Mustang’s car.

It pulls up next to him. Without a word, Breda opens the passenger door on which sits the creepiest thing Havoc’s ever seen, some sort of bloodless flesh puppet. He grabs it by the arm and neck—ugh, that thing’s sticky—and tosses it into the dumpster.

“Hop in the back,” Breda says. “I’ll drop you off.”

When he climbs in, Havoc spots his dark clothes in the back seat, tucked under an olive-green metal toolbox. He quickly changes while Breda drives around the block. By the time they get back to the hole in the wall, Havoc’s in civvies with his radio tucked into his jacket pocket.

“What’s with the toolbox?” he asks.

“So you can cover up the breach afterwards,” Breda answers, pulling to a stop. “Don’t have time to teach you a reconstruction array.”

“D’you know how to do one?”

“That’s besides the point.”

Havoc grins and grabs the toolbox, getting out of the car. Breda gives him a salute before driving off.

There’s still no one around. Havoc kicks a couple of garbage bags in front of the hole and looks around for material to cover it up later; thankfully there’s a half-abandoned construction site just down the street. He drags a few sheets of plywood close then leans against the wall, getting out a cigarette. Just a guy having a smoke, nothing to see here.

It feels like a long wait, enough for the sky to go dark, but the night falls quickly that time of the year. Really it’s only been thirty minutes by the time the radio in his pocket crackles to life to signal Maria Ross’ escape.

_“Open fire on sight, repeat: fire on sight.”_

Mustang will be on the move by now. Havoc smokes slowly, making it last.

Seven minutes more, and then muffled voices—then the dumpster clangs open, and through the hole Havoc can see the puppet being tugged out. He doesn’t move from his position against the wall, especially not when a column of hot flame shoots out of the breach minutes later.

Then he crouches down and catches Maria Ross just as she falls backwards into the dumpster.

Boarding up the hole just takes a minute. After that they just walk away. That part, the pretending everything’s normal, is maybe the hardest; once again, smoking does wonders for appearances.

“Don’t hurry so much,” he tells her. The warehouse district at night is pretty dark. They walk from cone of light to cone of orange light.

Ross takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “What if there’s a patrol.”

“Hopefully Mustang’s made enough noise to draw them all to him.”

Car lights slice through the shadows, and she freezes. “Lieutenant—”

“Don’t worry. That’s Breda.” He flicks his cigarette away and keeps walking until he’s between two streetlights, where no one can see what’s going on. As soon as the car stops, he opens the back door for Ross. “Get in, lie down.”

She climbs in, flattening herself beneath the seats, and he closes the door behind her. He hands the toolbox back and receives his folded uniform in return.

Breda looks away while Havoc changes. “How did everything go?”

“Fine. Almost forgot the prisoner tags.” Havoc balls up his black clothes and tosses them on the passenger seat through Breda’s window. “Also the Fullmetal showed up at just the wrong time.”

Breda huffs through his nose. “We’ll have to fix that. Can’t have him think we’re on opposite sides.”

Havoc finishes closing up his jacket. “What happens now?”

“Get back to HQ, act normal.” He starts the engine again, clearly not keen on sticking around for a second longer than necessary.

“And you?”

“I’m on exfil. If anyone asks, I’m visiting my aunt in East City.”

Havoc doesn’t ask when he’ll be back. “So you get a holiday and I get overtime, I see how it is.”

Breda wastes half a second smiling at him then drives away into the dark.

*

Mustang gathers them all for a meeting being closed doors the next day. “Whoever tried blaming Ross for Hughes’ death won’t be happy about Barry’s interference. They’ll come for him so he doesn’t do it again. Would be a shame to let that kind of bait go to waste.”

Breda probably won’t be back for days, if not weeks, and Falman’s still going stir-crazy in his own apartment; they’re in limited numbers for this new op, which means it’s time to bring in Fuery for good. He seems perfectly unperturbed by the extent of Mustang’s extramilitary activities—and, just like Falman, he’s loyal to the squad before everything else.

“Yes, I can rig something up so you can direct this from the office,” he says after Mustang describes what he needs. “Falman lives in the western district, doesn’t he? Near the old pigeon house.”

“Yeah, that thing directly overlooks the courtyard,” Havoc remembers.

“Excellent. Scope the place out, see if you can set up something there. And in the apartment next to Falman’s, too. He mentioned it was empty.” Mustang looks at Havoc. “You’re on stakeout duty until further notice, lieutenant.”

Havoc sighs. He’s got to call Solaris and cancel their dates for the week.

*

It’s three whole days before something _finally_ happens.

At first Havoc isn’t quite sure anything’s happening—it’s hard to tell when you’re listening in through the wall, especially since Falman and Barry sometimes yell at each other in the middle of the day. But then his radio crackles to life.

_“Jacqueline, we’ve got a guest.”_

Havoc gets to his feet. “Roger that.”

By the time he gets out into the hallway, the agitation next door’s escalated into a series of gunshots. Havoc breaks down the door to Falman’s apartment and then nearly breaks Falman’s arm to keep him from shooting at him—with the very same gun Havoc brought him three days ago, too; the irony would have probably killed him even if the bullet hadn’t. There’s a burly, crazed, absolutely stinking man trying his damnedest to get at Barry, with teeth and nails and a lot of animal groaning.

Havoc stops thinking and just acts; shooting, retreating, taking everyone outside where it’s safer, in plain sight for Hawkeye to cover them from the tower. This is field work; this is what he does best. He’s not afraid, there’s no time.

An explosion from the pigeon house lets them knows Mustang’s showed up, which wasn’t part of the plan. When they all meet at the bottom of the tower, Alphonse is also there; at this point Havoc’s not surprised anymore by the Elrics just showing up on their every mission. They’re clearly chasing after the same thing. Five minutes later they’re all piling up in Mustang’s car—except Falman and Fuery, left behind on cover-up duty—to follow Barry running after his own soulless body.

*

Later Havoc will remember: as they pulled up in front of the building, Mustang said that spotting the enemy’s base was good enough, that it was better to retreat for now.

But Barry ran in, and they followed—but even then, when they got to the padlocked gate Alphonse opened for them, Mustang said not to explore too deeply, to come back as soon as they’d found something worth reporting on.

And afterwards, when Solaris showed up, rattling Havoc so much he actually lowered his gun for a second—just how damn unlucky can he _get_ with women— _even then,_ they found a way to blow her up, even with the Stone pulsing at her core, even with Mustang’s ignition gloves neutralized.

They _could_ have gotten away then; they _could_ have never broken the lock; they _could_ have never entered that building in the first place. At every turn Mustang talked about retreat, acknowledged it as the reasonable choice.

But he kept pressing forward anyway; all this to find out about Hughes. It wasn’t what the op was about but that’s what he asked when he shot Solaris point-blank. _On your knees. Tell me everything._ That’s why they went back into that room after the explosion.

Havoc reassured Falman a couple of days ago, told him Mustang was good at control. But when he feels the stabbing pain in his gut, when he abruptly knows for certain his body just got damaged beyond repair, it’s Breda’s words that he remembers before it all goes dark.

_Mustang hasn’t got any patience, you know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading i love havoc so much STAY TUNED NEXT FOR BREDA POV
> 
> and thank you so much for everyone who already commented! i love reading y'all so much <3


	5. Chapter 5

It feels strange walking into HQ in civvies, like Breda’s borrowed someone else’s life for a day. The hour’s so early there’s hardly anyone around, except for Mustang, waiting at the front desk in his crisply pressed uniform.

As Breda walks up to him, Mustang gives his light tan suit a once-over. “Telmani?”

Breda shrugs one shoulder. “Best tailor in East City.”

When he’s out of uniform Mustang mostly wears Algareb, which is just a tad too pretentious if you’re asking Breda, though he gets why Mustang would favor them—they suit his persona and, Breda suspects, his true self too.

“Thank you for coming in so early,” Mustang says like they haven’t spent most of the night together devising a plan in the back of Madame Christmas’ bar. “Officer Dargo’s getting your leave papers. If he hurries, you can probably catch the first train to the east.”

He slides a leather-bound notebook over the desk to Breda.

“I got you some light reading. It’s a long way to Resembool.”

Breda pockets it.

“How’s our friend?” Mustang asks.

“Eager for a change of scenery, I’d say.”

“About that.” He’s looking ahead at nothing in particular. “If she gives you any reason to doubt, don’t let her go any further than Xerxes.”

Breda freezes.

Mustang moves his head just enough to make eye contact. “That’s an order, lieutenant,” he says softly.

And—Breda can see the logic. His mind and Mustang’s work in much the same ways sometimes. _If_ there is any doubt over whether Ross killed Hughes, if there’s even the slightest chance she’s working for the other side, it would be completely insane to let her live.

When Himelstein made Breda do unpleasant things, she told him _You don’t have to like it._ He’s chewed on these words a lot. The last time he didn’t like what he was doing, he nearly quit Mustang’s squad. But that would have been a mistake back then, and he’s pretty sure it would still be a mistake today.

They all have faith in Mustang, though Breda can see a clear difference in the way they do. When Havoc’s given his loyalty to someone, he never takes it back—unless they’re the one to toss him out. When Breda’s decided to be loyal to someone, he keeps questioning his own decision, poking and prodding at it. The rest of the squad falls somewhere between those two extremes, trusting Mustang or trusting his goal, or conflating both. Mustang himself has to buy his own act on a daily basis; it can’t be an easy position to be in. Hughes’ death has obviously thrown him off-balance—but has it thrown him off-course? Maybe his actual reasons for giving that order are too personal, but the order itself still makes sense. And Breda doesn’t have to like it.

“Breda,” Mustang says. He won’t let him go without an answer.

“I hear you, sir,” Breda replies just as Officer Dargo appears with his leave papers.

Mustang nods, then signs the form, and Breda finds himself officially on leave for the first time since his mother died.

“Enjoy your holidays,” Mustang tells him.

“Don’t have too much fun without me.” He’s not too worried on that count. The next step for the squad is using Barry as bait, but on that one, success is far from a given. It’s likely nothing will happen at all.

*

Breda detours by the Stables on his way home. He hasn’t exactly been a regular customer since they’ve been in Central for a little over a month, but the owner’s great friends with Madame Christmas and, like all men of the industry, enjoys a productive relationship with an army officer. Breda explains what he needs, obtains it under five minutes and leaves a sizeable tip. After that he goes straight home—first train to the east is in half an hour.

Ling Yao’s intervention was a stroke of luck, dovetailing perfectly into Mustang’s preexisting plans. The east is Breda’s turf; after five years of intelligence work there, he could throw a stone in any eastern city and hit three people who can bring him across the desert no questions asked. The east is also, conveniently, where the Fullmetal is from; Armstrong will have no trouble finding an excuse to bring him along.

The journey will give Breda more than enough time to absorb the contents of Mustang’s notebook and ask the right questions when they all get together in Xerxes. After that Ross can be exfiltrated the rest of the way into Xing while the rest of them spirit themselves back to Central. It’s a tight, efficient plan, not a moment wasted. Shame Breda can’t put it on his military resume.

When he unlocks his door, Fu and Ross are where he’s left them a few hours ago, except they’ve switched positions. The old man’s sleeping on Breda’s bed, over the covers, fingers laced on his chest; he’s kept his boots on but splayed out his own coat under him. Ross is sitting at the table.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says with a strained smile.

“Mm. Not surprising.” He gives her the bag from the Stables. “Put this on.”

She takes out the clothes, which she doesn’t seem to find to her taste. Then she feels inside the bag and fishes out the wig, frowning in alarm. “You’re kidding…”

“I’m dead serious.” It’s an excellent wig, too; the Stables’ drag show is one of the best in town.

Reluctantly, Ross locks herself up in his small bathroom to change; when she comes out in her tight black dress and high heels, she’s already looking like a completely different person. Breda helps her with the wig—long blonde locks that trickle down her shoulders. Then he gives her a tube of lipstick and sends her back into the bathroom. When she comes out with a red mouth and dark glasses on, she makes a helpless gesture of approval. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

“Mr. Fu,” Breda says, and Fu opens his eyes like he was never sleeping at all. “It’s time.”

Central station is just five minutes away; Breda tends to favor apartments close to railways. They’re usually cheaper, they’re definitely more practical, and he’s never minded the noise. The three of them each buy their own ticket and go sit in separate cars. Breda picks a window seat so nobody can look over his shoulder and opens Mustang’s notebook.

By the time they get to Resembool, he’s read the whole thing. He glimpses Fu and Ross getting down from the train, meets Fu’s eyes and directs him with a glance towards Mr. Han, who’s waiting at the end of the platform. The plan’s for them to go ahead while Breda waits for Armstrong.

He often finds himself with a few hours to kill on that kind of mission, but downtime doesn’t have to be wasted. He sits in the train station bar drinking a ginger ale, reading Mustang’s notebook again. The major shows up on the evening train just as planned with a very confused Fullmetal in tow.

Edward Elric’s growing into a young man, but he’s still a child in many ways—when Breda lets him know they’re leaving the country, his first reaction is to protest he doesn’t have his passport. But he catches on quick, and after that he doesn’t ask any more questions, trusting that they’re taking him to the answers. Breda’s quietly impressed with the kid for not spitting in his face, really; as far as Edward knows, Mustang’s murdered Ross in cold blood and Breda’s doing his bidding.

Crossing the first half of the desert isn’t pleasant for anyone, but when they do get to Xerxes and Ross comes out of the ruins, the look on Edward’s face is worth a hundred hours on muleback.

 _“Fucking_ Mustang,” he grins.

Yeah, Breda likes that kid. He gratefully dismounts and goes off to sit in the shade with his bottle of water. Edward, who complained about his metal arm and leg the whole way, straight-up dunks himself into the mule trough. After they’ve all recuperated a little, Breda signals for Armstrong to fish out his fellow State Alchemist and gestures to Fu and Ross.

“Gather round, please. It’s time to put everything we know together.”

As it turns out, Edward knows a great deal; it’s worth letting him drip on Breda’s shoulder while he adds this or that detail as they flip through Mustang’s notebook together. Breda takes several pages worth of notes, including a couple of remarkably lifelike portraits of homunculi courtesy of Major Armstrong. Dr. Marcoh and the secret behind the Stone. The military labs where Barry the Chopper was so painfully reborn. A shapeshifter, a woman with claws. Breda stares at the drawing of the serpent eating its tail for a while. 

Out of all of this, the Devil’s Nest massacre is what worries him the most. They’re looking for a conspiracy within the brass that looks increasingly tangled up with mass murder for alchemical power, something about which the Devil’s Nest people knew a lot—and the Devil’s Nest people all died in an operation conducted by none other than President Bradley.

Of course, it would make no sense for the president himself to be part of a conspiracy within the army. Bradley _is_ the army. Unless the true conspiracy goes beyond, into depths Breda cannot fathom. What do you crave for when you already have full powers?

This is definitely above his pay grade. But it’s not like he’s being paid for investigating all this, anyway, and he’s come a long way in the past few years. He can go a little further still. Or so he hopes.

He keeps sitting there, musing upon everything he’s heard, eyes drifting around the ruins while the others gather up their things to leave. Maybe it’s because he’s thinking of the opaque wall they’ve hit, but this dead, empty place really gives him the creeps.

“Lieutenant Breda?”

He looks up. It’s Ross, dressed for her desert journey.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says.

“Just following the colonel’s orders,” he answers automatically.

She ignores him. “Will you thank Lieutenant Havoc for me, too? I didn’t have time.”

He’s glad she can look him in the eye. He wouldn’t have liked killing her.

“I’ll pass it on.” He gets up to shake her hand.

*

It’s another day before he’s back in Central, he and Armstrong parting ways as soon as they get off the train. Breda could probably use a few hours of sleep, and he could definitely use a shower, but he won’t consider himself off the clock until he’s made his report so he heads straight for HQ.

Dargo makes a funny face seeing him walk into the building, but Breda just salutes and marches on. He’s brought his negligent persona from East City to Central, so reporting in sweat-stained civvies isn’t out of character for him. He does take the stairs so he won’t get stuck in an elevator with someone who might ask him about his holidays. He walks into the office wondering if Falman will be back, which would mean the Barry situation’s evolved significantly. But Falman isn’t there.

Nobody’s there.

Breda looks at the vacant desks for almost a whole minute. His stomach tightens up like a fist, to the point of nausea; then he shakes himself up before the spiral can really take hold of him. _No._ He’s a fool. If they’d gotten caught, he would have been arrested the second he walked into HQ. There has to be another explanation.

He goes back down to ask at the front desk, and Dargo directs him to Central Hospital.

*

Mustang’s right there when Breda comes in, sitting on a plastic chair in the waiting room. There’s an IV line sticking out of his arm and a thick bandage around his abdomen, just visible under his medical scrubs. Hawkeye is standing guard behind him. When she sees Breda, something passes across her face; the look of someone with no idea how to deliver difficult news.

The room tries spinning, but Breda doesn’t let it. He has his duty to think of. He has to do things in the right order.

“Colonel,” he says, and Mustang glances up at him.

“You’re back.” There are bad news on his face, too.

Breda gives him the leather notebook. That’s his report handed in. That’s his duty complete. He takes a shallow breath. “Is he dead?”

Mustang blinks; then he shakes his head, and Breda exhales for what feels like the first time since he walked into HQ to find the office empty.

After a moment looking at him, Mustang says, “Sit down for a second, lieutenant. You’ve come a long way.”

Breda sits down. His body feels like a church bell, echoing as if from a massive and terrible blow. Mustang hides the notebook under the thick medical volume he was reading.

“They came for Barry in Falman’s apartment,” he begins, and unrolls the whole operation from the pigeon house to the streets, from the military lab to what lay beyond the barred gate, from that first glimpse of Solaris to that room in which Havoc almost died.

Breda’s mind, still awash with adrenaline, metabolizes this information into even more retroactive fear and then into sudden, overwhelming anger. _Why did you press on_ , he wants to say. _Why did you?_

He almost says it. Just to see the look on Mustang’s face. But something holds him back and maybe it’s the memory of Maes Hughes; maybe it’s the thought of Mustang asking, _Is he dead?_ and being answered, _Yes._

In the end it’s the same as when Mustang ordered him to kill Maria Ross. It’s very possible his motives are muddled with grief and rage, but his resulting decisions are still sound. In his place, would Breda have retreated? At the enemy’s door, with a unique opportunity to take them by surprise, to uncover the whole mystery in one go? He’s not sure. It’s Mustang’s job and mission to lead them into danger. It’s their job and mission to accept it.

“Well,” he says, at last. “You’ve saved his life.”

Mustang looks like he expected him to say something else.

“I’ll let you read my report.” Breda gets up and folds his coat over his arm before heading for the stairs.

*

Havoc’s in room 304, lying in bed, staring out the window.

He’s got a cigarette in his mouth but he seems to have forgotten about it. Breda grabs an ashtray just in time to catch the ashes as they fall.

Havoc turns his head; his blue eyes are cloudy and vague. Then he takes the wasted cigarette out of his mouth with a sigh. “And I’m only allowed one of these a day.”

Breda wants to go back downstairs and kill Mustang, so maybe his anger hasn’t ebbed _that_ much. He goes to stand at the window while he waits to calm down. He can still see Havoc as clearly as if he was facing him; he can see the shapeless beige sweater someone lent him so he wouldn’t be cold in his flimsy blue scrubs, he can see the swell of the bandages underneath, he can see the dark circles under his eyes, he can see his rolled back sleeve for the IV line in his right arm, he can see the lacework of his veins and the shape of his wrists and the curl of his fingers and the color of his hair and the curve of his neck and the line of his mouth.

Behind him Havoc asks, “She make it out safe?”

It’s another second before Breda can speak again. “Yeah. Everything went smoothly.”

“Good.” Havoc’s voice is like his eyes, emptied out. “I’m glad.”

“Your legs. Can’t move them at all?”

“Nope.”

“How about automail? Like Edward.”

“Can’t. My spinal cord’s been completely severed.”

And that’s it. There’s nothing more to say. There’s nothing more to do. Breda’s fingers tighten around his folded coat. He’s so angry, not even at Mustang anymore, just so damn _angry._ He thinks of all these horrors Edward’s told him about in those fantastical ruins in the middle of the desert. They seem so distant now, next to this hospital room. All these terrible miracles.

“Doesn’t suit you,” he says.

Havoc’s slow to react. “What?”

“Retirement.” He marches right back out of Havoc’s room.

By the time he gets back to ground floor he’s almost running. Mustang’s still here, without Fuery, just Hawkeye standing guard behind him. She’s actually, actively watching him like he might vanish if she looks away just for a second. When he sees her like that Breda suddenly realizes something, a shock of recognition he should have probably had much earlier. That’s how he’d look at Havoc if he could.

He walks up to them, out of breath. “Colonel. Are you done reading my report?”

Mustang looks up. “Not quite…”

“Go to the red bookmark,” Breda tells him.

Frowning, Mustang flips to the right page and quickly reads Breda’s account of Armstrong and Edward’s report on Dr. Marcoh. Then he looks back up, his eyes wider.

“Can you extend my leave?” Breda asks pressingly.

Mustang looks just as determined as he feels, and—no, Breda’s not angry at him anymore.

“I’ll take care of it,” Mustang says. “ _Go_.”

The train station’s not far. If he hurries, he can catch the 10am Eastern Express and get down at Isfara; then it’ll only be a matter of finding a cart to take him the rest of the way to Marcoh’s house. He can be there within the day. He can make it. He can shower later, and eat later, and sleep later, too.

*

But even with all that he’s too late.

*

This time, when he comes back to Central, he heads for his apartment and collapses into bed. In the morning, he doesn’t feel like he slept at all. He showers and shaves and glares at himself in the mirror for a moment.

Then he puts on his uniform—it feels like he hasn’t worn it in weeks, when really it’s just been a few days—and slams the door on his way out.

He doesn’t care about being late to work, since there’s no one at the office. Really, he wouldn’t care even if he was missing out on his annual performance evaluation. He heads for the commercial district and quickly finds a gym equipment store. He’s got a decent idea of what he might need, but the shop owner can probably help him pinpoint his choices. And he’ll have to read up some more on the subject, too. Maybe ask Falman, once the poor guy’s done being interrogated by Forveilles.

After he’s bought what he wanted, he heads for the hospital. Mustang was waiting for him this time, but when he sees Breda in uniform, his face hardens. No need to tell him the mission’s failed; if Breda was bringing back Marcoh, he wouldn’t have spared a couple of hours to sleep and change.

“What happened?”

“Someone got there before me,” Breda says. “Wearing my face, apparently.”

There’s another reason Mustang keeps losing at chess: he can’t ever forget it’s just a game. But now, sitting in this draughty waiting room, listening to Breda’s report, there’s an intensity in his dark eyes Breda’s never seen from across the black-and-white board. The real world’s wider than sixty-four squares.

When they’re done, Mustang carefully gets up and, together with Hawkeye, they head back to room 304. They find a tearful middle-aged woman’s just leaving, comforted by a tall Central officer. Breda knows her—that’s Havoc’s mother, Alice. She doesn’t notice him as they pass each other by in the hallway.

The unpleasant shock he felt seeing her does nothing to prepare him for what comes next. Maybe he didn’t want to guess, for once. But Havoc getting discharged shouldn’t be that much of a surprise: he’s a field officer who’s paralyzed under the waist. And it’s not kind, what Mustang’s doing, telling him he won’t accept it. Breda can understand why; Mustang probably thinks he’s being faithful to his subordinate who got injured by his fault. Really he’s blinded by his own guilt, refusing to acknowledge the facts until Havoc finally has no choice but to break—and when he’d been trying so damn hard to keep it together, too.

“Havoc! Stop!” Breda holds him back when he grabs Mustang at the collar, but Havoc can’t even sit up by himself; he’s already letting go, falling back against his pillows, shivering all over.

Shortly after it’s just the two of them in the crushing silence of the hospital room, broken only by Havoc’s harsh breaths. He’s mostly slipped out of Breda’s hold, so Breda lets go entirely and goes to sit on the chair by the bed.

It’s long minutes before Havoc speaks again. “‘See you at the top.’ What the hell does that mean? What does he think I can _do_ like this?”

“PT would be a start,” Breda says gruffly.

Havoc trembles for a few more seconds. Then he blinks at him. “PT?”

“Yeah. Better to start early, so I brought you grippers.” Breda leans forward to drop the gym store bag in his lap. “You’ve got to build up your upper body strength.”

Havoc looks at the bag like he’s never seen one before. He tentatively gets out one of the grippers, tries it a few times. The metal squeaks in his hand. After a moment of stillness, he exhales and lies back against his pillow, looking over at Breda again.

“So you’re not going to let me rest, huh.”

If Breda meets his eyes for too long he’ll do something he shouldn’t, so he stares at the wall. “Not for a minute.”

Havoc takes a deeper breath, and this time when he lets it out it nearly doesn’t shake anymore. “You should probably get back to HQ.”

“Yeah.” Breda straightens up. “I’ll come by again later.”

When he leaves the room, he finds Mustang sitting in the hallway, looking too pale. Hawkeye’s gone, meaning he sent her to fetch something. Probably his uniform; after what just happened there’s just no way he’ll go back to bed rest, injury or no injury. He looks up at Breda with dark defensive eyes.

Breda stops in front of him. “Your orders?”

Mustang stares for a second. Then he says, “Go check on Falman. He must be back at the office with Fuery by now, make sure the interrogation went well. Hawkeye and I will be joining you soon. Get them all up to speed in the meantime.”

“Yessir.” Breda salutes and goes. He can feel Mustang still looking at him as he steps out of the building.

*

Falman’s back indeed, looking intensely relieved to be working again despite his three-hour interrogation. He says it went okay, and Breda has no doubt that he’s stuck to the cover story perfectly; trust Falman to remember every detail of it.

After they’re all done debriefing the past few days, Falman says, “There’s something else you should know, lieutenant.”

“What is it?”

“Scar’s back. He’s made three victims in Central just yesterday. The Silver Alchemist was one of them.”

But of course. And just when they’ve lost their field officer. Which reminds Breda they haven’t started discussing who would replace Havoc. Can anyone even do that? They could promote Fuery and steal one of Armstrong’s subordinates to fill in for him, maybe Denny Brosh. Fuery would certainly make an excellent second lieutenant, but—he’s just more useful as a master sergeant, less noticeable. Brosh is a loyal soldier but can’t keep a secret; he might be more a liability than anything else. Maria Ross would have been perfect, but she’s unavailable. They can’t bring in Catalina from East City without drawing attention…

Breda rubs the bridge of his nose. “Fuery, send out a message to Edward Elric at the Central Hotel if it hasn’t been done already. Falman, get me a list of all of Scar’s victims.”

He’s aware that Mustang was transferred to Central partly thanks to Scar decimating the brass. Maybe this added layer of chaos can work in their favor. In any case, they have to keep playing with the pieces they’ve got left.

Over the next couple of days, Mustang does his disappearing act again, which is strangely nostalgic—feels like a long time since those early days in East City. Technically he’s not supposed to be out of the hospital yet, so it’s less noticeable than usual, but it does mean Hawkeye isn’t at the office either since she won’t leave his side anymore. This effectively makes Breda the highest-ranking officer around, so he covers both field and intel until they can come up with a better option.

He shapes and reshapes theories in his mind as he works. He doesn’t know what to think about the president anymore; Bradley’s the one who called the ambulances that took Mustang and Havoc to the hospital. If really he had ties to the homunculi it would have been so very easy to do away not just with Mustang, but with Alphonse Elric as well, two powerful players wiped off the board. Edward did mention the word of “sacrifice”, which might mean their shadow enemy intentionally keeps some people alive only to kill them later. But why? And which people, exactly? State Alchemists? If they were all that precious, they wouldn’t have been sent to the frontlines in the Ishbal War.

And there’s Dr. Marcoh’s disappearance. When Breda broke down his door and found only evidence of a very recent struggle, his mind was so full of Havoc he didn’t even think about what this abduction meant. But now he can’t stop thinking about it. Dr. Marcoh was involved in Stone research; if he’s been taken by the homunculi again—that shapeshifter who couldn’t resist using the face of one of Mustang’s subordinates, thus handing them their only real clue—it might mean they want to create more Stones. Why now? To what end?

Breda finds himself thinking about Himelstein again, the way he still does sometimes. He used to think her death and the Ishbal War were symptoms of a broken country. At the time, fixing it already felt like an impossible task. Now it seems the country itself might be the symptom of some greater, deeper evil. He’s hitting the same wall he did in Xerxes. What’s power greater than power? What more can you reach for once you’ve reached the top? Nothing beyond save for the heavens.

*

Going back to the hospital that evening, he runs into Alice Havoc leaving her son’s room. At first he just moves out of her way, but she stops and really looks at him. “Heymans? Heymans Breda?”

Breda’s mother used to address Havoc as ‘Jean’, too. Alice might be the only person left in the world who’d call him by his first name. “That’s me.”

“I thought I recognized you. From the academy.” She frowns. “What were you thinking, giving him those gripper things? It’s too early.”

It’s not real anger in her voice, just weariness. Breda says, “It’s better to start early with PT, ma’am. He’ll be careful.”

“We’re bringing him home as soon as he can be moved, you know.”

“I know.” He clears his throat. “Hope you don’t mind me visiting when I’m on leave.”

For a moment she shakes her head in a tired, helpless sort of way. Then she says, “Of course I don’t. You’re welcome at any time.”

When he walks into Havoc’s room, Breda finds him absently working the grippers.

“Scar’s back,” he says.

Havoc, slightly out of breath, turns his head to look at him. “Scar?”

“Yep.”

“Shit. Last thing we needed.”

“That’s what I said.” Breda sits down by his bed and tells him about his day. Havoc listens intently and even brainstorms his own replacement with him. Sometimes his eyes get vague again, and it looks like he’s not keeping himself clean-shaven anymore, but his grip’s solid and he’s worked up a sweat.

When Breda gets up to leave an hour later, Havoc says, “Hey. I… I haven’t had my cigarette today. Do you mind? They’re in the top drawer over there.”

Breda opens the drawer. He wonders why they’ve been stashed so far away from Havoc, who can’t get up to retrieve them. Maybe to ensure he won’t smoke more than one a day.

He grabs the whole pack and tosses it over. “Just keep it in your nightstand.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Havoc gets a cigarette out. “Got a light?”

Breda’s lighter won’t be of any more use after Havoc’s gone.

*

A few days later Yakovlev and Storch from Internal Affairs appear in the office to hand Breda a kraft envelope, and it turns out Havoc will be the last of them to leave Central after all.

*

Breda stays late at the darkened office, packing under the light of a single lamp. All the desks are cluttered up with half-filled cardboard boxes marked _Falman, Hawkeye, Fuery, Breda,_ a mirror of the day they got here, less than three months ago. The office had just been scrubbed fresh; he can still remember the pungent, pine-scented smell.

Mustang comes in close to midnight.

“There you are,” Breda says. “Was hoping you’d swing by.” He closes a box with a length of duct tape. “Thought you might be dead.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Mustang answers, leaning back on a desk. His voice is very flat. “Not even a court martial.”

For a few minutes he just watches Breda pack.

Then he says, “You’re all hostages.”

“A slap on the hand and your toys taken away.” Breda starts on a new box. “Stings a bit.”

“Mm.”

“So it was Bradley?”

“All of them. Ever since the beginning of this country. There’s something very old at the top.”

Breda puts a few folders away for a couple of minutes. Then he answers, “Well. Good.”

“Good?”

“Don’t know how to break it to you, sir, but you’re not that great at chess.” Duct tape again. “Now it turns out the game was rigged anyway. So we can get to work on upsetting the board.”

“You scare me, Breda.” Mustang’s almost smiling. “You already scared me back in East City, keeping that book under your mattress.”

“I like to think I’ve learned a few things since then.” Breda finally looks at him. “Do you have any orders for me?”

“Just stay alive,” Mustang says quietly.

Breda nods. He feels tired. Hopefully it’ll pass.

*

“Disbanded?” Havoc looks more confused than anything else.

Breda was, too, at first. They’d brought too much attention on themselves, and he did expect some sort of backlash, but he didn’t think the worst-case scenario would be so quiet, so matter-of-fact. He thought they would all end up like Himelstein if they were found out. But she was just a surface player, like him at the time. Now they’ve poked something so big it won’t even bother crushing them.

Havoc’s slowly absorbing the news. The dumbbells Breda brought him sit heavy at the end of his hospital bed. “So—where are you all going?”

Breda sits by his side. “Fotset for Fuery, in the south. Falman’s off to Briggs. And I’m going west to Pendleton.”

“Those are all active warzones.”

So sure, they’re not getting backed against a brick wall with a blindfold on, but it’s very likely they’ll die anyway. If they do slip between the cracks, well, that’s not really a problem. _They’re_ not really a problem. But if Mustang makes too much noise it will be easy to make them disappear after all.

Breda leans back in his chair and admits, “It’s a setback.”

“A setback,” Havoc repeats. “I never realized you were an optimist.”

“Well, the last time I got into something like this, my CO was executed for treason. This time around you’re all alive, at least.”

Privately he’s not certain any of them will last the year. But Mustang ordered him not to die, and Breda will do his best to comply long enough to get new orders. He’s been through this before; he knows how to move on, how to forge ahead even when it all feels utterly futile. Staying alive is the least and the most he can do.

This time, though, he’s not being assigned to something like Mustang’s squad. Havoc won’t be there paving the way. Havoc won’t be there at all—out of the army, back to the far east, wheelchair-bound, answering the phone in the back of a grocery store, and Breda will never see him again.

He was trying not to let that thought take shape, but all of a sudden he’s failed and now it’s taking over. He will never see Havoc again. His mother said Breda was welcome to visit, but that was before their team was torn apart. Pendleton is literally on the other side of the country and Breda’s CO won’t sign off on random vacations anymore. Besides, he’ll be under surveillance; if he travels thirteen hours just to see someone who used to be in Mustang’s squad, he’ll almost certainly be putting a target on Havoc’s back. However he tries to tackle the issue it always comes down to the same answer. And this shouldn’t matter so much, with everything he’s learned in the past few weeks, this conspiracy that might kill them all before long—this shouldn’t matter so much. This shouldn’t be the only thing he can think about.

Breda gets up. “Well. I guess I should get going.”

“Can’t believe you brought me weights as a going-away present,” Havoc sighs.

“You’ve got to stay in shape, Havoc. If not for PT, at least for the girls.” Breda doesn’t stop pulling on his coat; he’s aware Havoc is attempting to stretch this out a bit, but now he’s almost eager to get out, get this over with.

Havoc huffs. “Don’t think that’ll be much of a factor anymore.”

“What?” Breda says, distracted by his buttons. He’s walking now, almost at the door.

“I mean, look at me.”

Breda stops.

He stays like that for a moment. When he unfreezes, the first thing he does is finish closing up his coat, button after button. Then he walks back up to the bed, wraps his hand behind Havoc’s neck and kisses him.

It just lasts for a second or so, his free hand bracing on the covers. Then he steps back, straightens up. Havoc’s staring at him.

“You’ll always be a heartbreaker,” Breda tells him dryly. “Trust me on that one.”

With that, he walks towards the door. Just as he leaves the room Havoc calls “Breda,” _—_ but he keeps going, and then further down the hallway he hears him again, _“Breda!”_ but by then he’s at the stairs, and after that he can’t hear him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come foam at the mouth with me in the comments
> 
> see u soon for havoc's pov. canon waits for no man


	6. Chapter 6

“Mr. Havoc?”

Dr. Bauly has to call him a second time before Havoc stops looking out the window. He can’t get used to not being addressed as _lieutenant_ anymore.

“Sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t listening.”

She presses her lips together but makes no comment, and gets back to what she was saying. He never was very good at paying attention to lectures—his grades at the academy can testify to that—and since his injury, his focus has been shot to all hell. He knows he has to make an effort, though; whenever Bauly says _the patient_ , that means him.

Until recently he was recovering from surgery, but now they’ve taken all the tubes out and Bauly is bringing him up to speed on how much independence he can look forward to. He misses the days when he didn’t know about the words _bowel program._ As it turns out, he’ll be shitting himself for the rest of his life—but those are the good news, because it means his body’s still capable of independent bowel movement. Bauly has talked him through the different ways of inducing one; if Havoc keeps a tight schedule, he’s minimizing the risks of public embarrassment.

“It’s certainly better than manual removal with outside help,” she says encouragingly, and Havoc nods. Whatever she says he just nods.

Bauly also taught him how to put in and remove a catheter, several times over to make sure he could do it without harming himself. Havoc’s spent a significant portion of his life living in barracks, so it’s not like he was body shy to start with, but after those weeks in the hospital he really doesn’t have a shred of modesty left. Next she starts talking about sexual function, and his mind drifts again while she explains the difference between psychogenic and reflexogenic erection.

There’s a buzzing pain growing in his legs, like they’re filled with a swarm of furious hornets. He just breathes; he knows the feeling comes and goes. It’s his body trying to tell him something’s wrong. He wishes he could let it know he’s very aware pretty much everything’s gone wrong.

*

Not everyone’s been sent away from Central. Hawkeye comes by to see him when she can, but it’s mostly Mustang who visits, with surprising regularity. Havoc’s stopped feeling awkward around him around the third time he showed up; if he doesn’t mind Havoc grabbed him at the collar and shouted at him to get real, then Havoc will also shrug it off. It felt nice, anyway. Cathartic.

“How are you doing?” Mustang asks, sitting down. “How’s PT?”

“Good.” Unsurprisingly, Havoc hasn’t recovered anything by way of feeling or range of movement, but at least he’s improving muscle mass in his upper body.

“Good,” Mustang echoes absently. Ever since the squad’s been disbanded he’s had the same distant, calculating look in his eyes; he hardly bothers with his persona anymore—there’s really no point now. “Any news?”

Havoc folds up the _Post_ and shrugs. “Not really.”

This is what Mustang used to ask Breda every morning in HQ. Now Havoc’s the one reading the newspapers for him and giving him the digest, a small job that they’re both taking too seriously. But it’s always the same: slaughter around the circle. Breda, Falman and Fuery haven’t just been sent to active warzones—they’ve been dispatched to three of the ten nationwide array points where the army _intends_ to shed as much blood as possible.

Havoc really does make for a shitty intelligence officer, because Mustang was the one to tell him about that—he learned about it from Falman through General Armstrong. And Hawkeye was the one to uncover Selim Bradley’s identity and pass on the message to Mustang undetected, another thing Havoc learned from the man he’s supposed to inform. In his defense, he literally cannot get out of bed.

Today’s no different. “General Armstrong is staying in Central after all,” Mustang tells him. “She’ll be replacing Raven.”

This is good news—there was a strong possibility Bradley would simply execute her, and having an ally inside HQ will be a precious thing when the time comes. But Havoc can’t help thinking about Falman. It was good learning at least he served under someone whose politics aligned with Mustang’s, and now that relief’s gone.

“The Briggs troops are well-trained,” Mustang says quietly. “I’m not too worried about him.”

They’re both very worried about Fuery, who hasn’t been in touch with Mustang’s network since the latest attack on the southern Aerugo front, but it’s no use talking about that.

“And speaking of transfers,” Mustang goes on. “Forveilles is leaving for the west. They made him head of Pendleton HQ.”

Havoc wishes he had a cigarette. The one-a-day rule was killing him already before he’d finished his pack. And now there’s a non-negligible chance he’ll open the _Post_ one day to news of Breda’s execution on Mens Forveilles’ orders. Isn’t it fantastic being an intelligence officer?

Someone knocks on his door. “Havoc? It’s me.”

Mustang blanches. He’s paranoid about being in the same room as Hawkeye—in a way, by keeping them both in Central, Bradley’s pressuring them even more that if he’d sent them to the front. As silently as he can, Mustang goes to sit on an empty hospital bed and draws the curtain in front of him.

“Come in, lieutenant,” Havoc calls.

Hawkeye’s in her civvies, Black Hayate in her arms. The curtain’s still swaying a little but she pointedly doesn’t look at it. They talk for a bit and she looks genuinely sorry when she learns he’ll be back east next week, finally released from the hospital.

“We’ll miss you.” She puts Hayate down. “If I’d known, I would have brought you something…”

“Aw, don’t worry about it.”

She digs into her purse. “I did get you a new pack of cigarettes.”

“You _did?”_ He actually shoves himself to a more upright sitting position. “Thank you…”

He blinks as she hands him the pack; he’s not exactly new to smoking, so he can clearly see that it’s creased like it’s already been handled. When he flicks it open, there’s a piece of paper rolled up tight inside, among the cigarettes.

He reads it quickly, keeping it hidden in the folds of the sheets over his lap. Hawkeye adjusts her purse and picks up Hayate. “Lieutenant Catalina says hi, by the way.”

Rolling the paper back up, he wedges it into the pack again. Finally some news he can bring to Mustang for a change.

*

 _Promised Day._ In the spring, four months from now. In a way, this is what Mustang’s always needed: a clear shot at something he can torch up.

Now that he knows the plan—well, if they can call that a plan—Havoc feels like his brain’s grinding back to life. _How to be of use_ is such a terribly open question. _How to support a coup_ is refreshingly concrete, and having such a tight deadline fires him up inside. Still, he’s worried. He’s never led his own operation before, and certainly not from a wheelchair.

The journey home sucks; boarding the train is a pain in the ass even with an orderly to help. His mother is overflowing with concern, fussing over every little thing. But he barely notices because he’s busy thinking, thinking. Several times she has to shake his shoulder so he’ll pay attention to what she’s saying.

The family car’s waiting for them at the Angren train station, probably brought there ahead of time by one of Havoc’s brothers. Hoisting himself up into the passenger seat isn’t too difficult; but once they’re home, wheeling himself down the gravel path to the house is another story. He refuses to let his mother push him until he’s reached the front door, but once he’s on smooth floorboards he relents and lets her take the handles. He’s out of breath just from a couple dozen meters on rough terrain, and the room’s spinning. Something else Bauly told him to watch out for, dizziness from low blood pressure since his circulatory system under the waist isn’t exactly up to speed. At least he’s already sitting down.

“We gave you our room, since it’s the only one downstairs,” his mother says, pushing him along the hallway. “And we’re going to be taking yours. Bastian and Antoine came back from Isfara last week to help bring up our bed. It’s very nice up there, you know, such good lighting, I never realized.”

“What about Dad?” Havoc asks distantly. “His sciatica?”

“Oh, he can manage a flight of stairs, Jean, don’t worry.” She wheels him into what used to be his parents’ room. It looks so big and empty now: there’s a one-person bed, empty shelves, three massive boxes stamped _Central – Jean Havoc_ , his stuff which arrived a few days ahead of time. “See, you’re all set! And that way the bathroom across the hall’s all yours, too. Dr. Bauly said you wouldn’t need help there…”

She trails off. He’s so absent he doesn’t realize his mother has started crying until she lets out a small sob.

“Mom,” he says, focusing. “Hey. Mom. Come here.” She has to bend down awkwardly so he can hug her.

She just trembles against him for a little while. Then she takes a big sniff and straightens up, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief she always carries in her front pocket. “I’m sorry, Jean…”

“Don’t apologize.” He squeezes her hand and smiles. “Thank you. I’m going to be great here.”

She hugs him again and, after making sure he’s okay three more times, finally leaves the room to go make dinner—the whole family’s coming back to welcome him home tonight. Once she’s gone, he gets a cigarette out and lights it up.

The first drag is so good. He takes a moment to smoke a few puffs, sitting there in this blank room. He hasn’t been alone like this in over a month.

Then he moves the cigarette to the side of his mouth, wheels himself close to one of the big boxes and rips the tape off, pulling the flaps open. Wedged along the side are Breda’s dumbbells. He looks at them for a long moment, then takes them out and sets them onto the bed.

Next he fishes out the PT brochure Dr. Bauly gave him when he left and flips through it. Most of the exercises he can do without equipment. He doesn’t want to lie back while someone else moves his legs around, so he’s going to need those stretchy bands he can loop around his feet. Antoine can probably cut out strips of old tractor tubes for him. He starts building up a schedule in his mind the way he used to plan out his work weeks, goes back and forth in the brochure, smoking his cigarette all the while. When it’s just a stub he lights up a new one. Two cigarettes a day. Ain’t he the king of the hill.

The pain in his legs ramps up again, and after a minute he can’t help pounding his thigh with his fist a few times, hard, but of course that does nothing at all. He makes himself stop before he can bruise himself too badly and takes a long drag instead, holds it until he can feel his lungs burn. Focus. Okay. A solid PT schedule. And some kind of plan, something—

He doesn’t want to spiral. No one would blame him for it, but he doesn’t have _time._ Mustang was being delusional when he told him to catch up; he’s just an infuriating man who simply refuses to accept what he doesn’t like. But that’s why Havoc’s followed him in the first place so he doesn’t get to complain about it now.

He looks back to the dumbbells. Then he lets out the smoke all in a rush.

*

Rebecca Catalina is as energetic and brash as Havoc remembers, striding along the gravel path to his house. He was always surprised she got along so well with Hawkeye; maybe it’s true that opposites attract. Still, for all that she prefers to barrel through awkward moments, she stops after the garden gate and really takes him in, sitting there smoking under the porch with a wool blanket over his legs.

“Thanks for coming,” he says.

That gets her moving again, though more hesitantly. She comes up to sit by his side in one of the old wicker chairs. “So… how are you doing?”

He takes a drag from his cigarette, then says:

“Mustang’s gathering up his old squad to lead an assault on Central HQ in the spring, and I know he’s got Grumman and Armstrong’s support. But it’ll be a bare bones operation, especially since the Briggs troops will have a hard enough time supplying themselves. I’m thinking it’s time to bring back Maria Ross from Xing. She’s a solid field officer, I know she wants to be in the fight, and I’m going to need people who can actually drive if I’m going to establish supply routes.”

She stares at him.

“Fine,” he adds. “I’m doing fine.”

After another moment, her expression changes. She shifts in her seat, all her focus back on him instead of his legs. “How would you bring Maria Ross back?”

“There’s a Mr. Han in Resembool. Part of Breda’s old network.” They did talk about work sometimes, during all those nights spent together in his crappy apartment. He remembers it all so clearly. “I’m going to give him a call. And—you know the Eastern Liberation Front?”

“The terrorists your squad dismantled a few years ago?”

“Fuery had wire-tapped them en masse. Do you think you could you pull the files from East HQ records? With enough names I can probably retrace their steps. They had to get their weapons from _somewhere_.”

“Even if you do manage all that, you’ll still have to get them into Central undetected.”

“Oh, my family owns the Angren General Store. We’ve got plenty of trucks.” He gives her a half-shrug. “I’ve been thinking about this some, you know.”

*

So that’s where they start. He used to think he worked best with clear orders from someone else, but really this isn’t so hard; after he’s completed a task he just moves on to the next logical step. Just like field work. The only difference is that now he’s the one gathering his own intel and establishing his own strategy, borrowing his own trouble.

Contacting Han was the easy part; all there's left to do now about that one is wait. Catalina had no issue liberating the Eastern Liberation Front files, and soon enough Havoc’s taking himself up and down the streets of Angren, working three targets at once—Jero Hawkins, a bartender on Mayfield Street; Hermina Brion, a middle-aged woodworker who lives three houses down; and Robbie Sterkis, a seamster who smokes even more than he does. He returns home exhausted, his arms and shoulders aching, his palms red and irritated from working the wheels all day.

His mother’s torn between worry and gladness that he’s so active. “I really thought I’d have to persuade you to get out of the house,” she confesses one evening over dinner. “What are you doing all day?”

“Just catching up with people. Hanging out at Jero’s bar,” he answers, scarfing down his steak and potatoes.

His father pokes his head out of the kitchen. “We’d talked about you helping out at the store. Is that still happening?”

“Octave,” his mother protests.

“It’s not just so you’ll have something to do, we really could use a hand, you know.”

“Octave!” she snaps. “He hasn’t been out of the hospital two weeks…”

“I do—” Havoc interrupts himself to down his glass of milk. “I do want to help out. Not right away, though. Maybe in a couple of weeks.”

“Are you making time for your PT, at least?” his mother asks.

“Yes, Mom, every morning.” Really he could be doing more; his whole body lets him know every day that he’s not ready to push himself so hard. He can see about changing his PT routine if they’re not all dead come springtime.

The work’s not going to waste, though. He’s never found it difficult getting people to trust him, and now that he’s out of uniform, it’s almost ridiculously easy. Nobody’s threatened by a guy in a wheelchair. Twelve short days after Havoc’s started talking to him, Jero Hawkins says, “Keep it to yourself, but I actually used to do business with those guys.”

Havoc, parked at his usual place by the counter, raises his eyebrows over his beer. “What, the Front? You’re kidding.”

“No, really. Wasn’t even hard work. Just had to float down the Rheos into Aerugo to get them what they needed. I was happy to do it. I believed in the fight.” He’s scrubbing a dirty glass. “Mustang’s put an end to all that.”

“I used to be in his squad, you know.”

Jero freezes.

Havoc gestures wryly at himself. “Yeah. And look what that got me.”

After a moment, Jero resumes wiping the glass, eyes slightly wider. “Are you saying—”

“The things they made me do there,” Havoc says. “We’re taught to worship State Alchemists, but look what they’ve done in Ishbal. Look what they’ve done to me. Back then I already had my doubts, and now…”

It’s really so easy. Like someone’s feeding him lines. He can stay vague because no one would dare ask for more details, and that way he doesn’t even have to lie. And who wouldn’t believe he’s bitter? All they need to do is look at him.

“Shit, Havoc,” Jero says with feeling. “I had no idea.”

“I know how they work, you know. I could start it all up again. Avoid all their traps. What?” he says in answer to Jero’s look. “Not like I’ve got anything left to lose. Or anything else to do with my time.”

He lights up a cigarette.

“Did you say you had a route down the Rheos river? How did that work exactly?”

*

As it turns out, Jero Hawkins doesn’t want to go back to the gunrunning business, but he calls up Hermina Brion and Robbie Sterkis and lets the three of them have a chat at a quiet table in the back. Since they already know him, Brion and Sterkis aren’t too wary of Havoc, and talking shit about Mustang is a surefire way to make friends. They’re more than intrigued by his proposal, more than ready to get back into the good fight; and they might hate the army but they’re still impressed by Havoc’s credentials as an ex-field officer. They tell him about their fallen comrades, he doesn’t mention he personally shot one of them dead, and just like that they’re in business for a first run.

Of course Havoc’s not going with them. But thanks to his infallible advice—it helps that Grumman’s looking the other way and Catalina’s feeding him direct intel—Brion and Sterkis have no problems avoiding patrols and getting in and out of Aerugo completely undetected. They come back high on adrenaline and drunk on success and trusting him so, so much. When he pays up with a bonus and sends them back for more, adding that he’s gathering up ex-army officers to pick up the fight, that it won’t be the same this time, that they’re really going to make a difference, their trust turns into blind faith. Within two months of his return in Angren he’s the new head of the Eastern Liberation Front _._

*

“We’re closing,” he says from behind the counter when the door chimes.

Now that he’s got material coming in at a high rate, he’s been covering the evening shifts at the general store. If Sterkis or Brion need to talk to him they can just come in and buy a scented candle or a bag of trail mix. The people who come in carrying the goods look no different than the usual store suppliers, the crates of ammunition look no different than the crates of food, and there’s still plenty of room in the back for more.

“Oh, I’m just here for a bottle of champagne,” says a voice. “I won’t be long.” He looks up; it’s Rebecca Catalina, grinning at him. “Hey there, boss.”

He smiles and wheels himself around the counter. “What are you doing here?”

“I just told you.” She peruses the bottles on the shelf while he locks up and draws down the blinds. “We need something classy. How about a Clarinbridge?”

“It’s too early to celebrate anything.”

“It’s the _perfect_ time to celebrate,” she counters. “Kandela said it best— _in war as in love, any time that’s not too early is too late_.”

Havoc’s throat tightens. He draws on his cigarette to chase the feeling away.

“Oh, Ardcloud 1910, that’s perfect.” She takes off her scarf and coat then pops the bottle. “Can you get us some glasses?”

The champagne flutes are too high for him to reach, so he grabs two tin mugs. When he pours, the champagne fizzes up inside like it’s gnawing away at the metal. She toasts him cheerfully. “To Jean Havoc, gunrunner.”

He smiles, knocking their tin mugs together. She downs the whole thing like it’s cheap beer, then says, “I’m liking the goatee, by the way.”

“Yeah? Thanks.” He rubs his chin with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t sure, but…”

She puts away her mug.

“Hey. Remember that time we almost hooked up in the academy barracks?”

Havoc does remember. He never did go all the way with a fellow officer; the risks vastly outweighed the rewards. But now he’s out of the army, or so they tell him.

Rebecca’s looking at him intently.

“You do realize it’s not going to be the ride of your life,” he tells her after a moment.

She shrugs. “There’s more than one way to have a good time, Jean.”

He plops his stub down into his mug; it sinks into the metallic champagne with a fizzing noise.

Rebecca comes over to him, grips the arms of his chair and straddles his lap. When he grabs her hips to steady her, he’s almost surprised by how familiar it feels, like he’s bridged a gap to the past. He honestly didn’t think something like that would ever happen again. But there she is, grinning down at him. Rebecca does like to have a good time; in that way she’s very much like him, uncomplicated. She leans in to kiss him—

_He leans in to kiss him._

“Jean?”

He blinks. Rebecca’s staring at him. He completely blanked out.

Whatever she’s seeing on his face, it puts an end to the whole thing. She gets off his lap and takes a step back, looking concerned. “Riza mentioned I looked a bit like her. Is it the hair?”

It takes him a full five seconds to realize she’s talking about Solaris.

“That’s not it,” he manages. “I was thinking about… someone else.” Which doesn’t sound great, so he adds, “Sorry.”

She handwaves his apology away. “I wasn’t asking you to marry me, Jean. It’s okay. But—are you okay?”

Is he? At night he keeps dreaming of Breda walking out of his hospital room. In those dreams Havoc gets up and runs after him in the hallway. He grabs him and makes him stop. He needs him to explain, to make things make sense like he always does. If he could just talk to him for five minutes. If he could at least know for sure he’s still alive.

“I guess not,” he says quietly.

“Now I know why you’ve been running yourself into the ground.” She snorts. “Any normal person would be worrying about the end of the world, but no. It’s always gotta be about romance with you.”

He dredges up a smile. “I really am sorry.”

She wraps up her scarf again, puts her coat back on. “Can’t believe you ended up turning me down twice. There won’t be a third chance, you know.”

“Already kicking myself about it.”

She exhales, then says, “There _was_ an actual reason I came here.”

He looks up at her.

“First of all—Grumman got a message from Central HQ this morning. President Bradley will be supervising the joint eastern and northern spring maneuvers himself in East City.”

"What? So he won't be in Central on Promised Day?"

"He won't." She lets him absorb that, then goes on: “And one of our desert patrols reported movement in the east earlier tonight. Whoever it is, they should be here by dawn.”

*

Rebecca drives them to the edge of the desert, turns off the engine and kills the lights. It’s a long wait till dawn, but they don’t talk much, for which Havoc’s grateful. It wouldn’t feel right trying to explain when it felt so private on Breda’s part, something Havoc was never supposed to see.

Just as a pale grey light starts washing the night away, they spot a trembling shape on the horizon. Havoc gets out his binoculars.

“Looks like a mule…” He focuses up. “Three mules.”

“Maybe she’s brought someone with her.”

“Maybe.”

“Should I signal them?”

“Might as well. Be ready to get out of here if things go south.”

“Copy that, boss.”

She flashes the lights, three times. There’s no visible reaction from the small caravan, but after fifteen minutes it becomes obvious they’re now heading right for the car.

The sun rises over the horizon, flooding everything with light. By the time Havoc can use the binoculars again the caravan’s much closer. There’s only one rider, and when she takes off her cowl he can clearly see the beauty spot on her left cheekbone.

He reaches out and opens the car door. Rebecca takes that as her cue to go and retrieve his folded wheelchair from the back, bringing it around for him. Bracing on the dashboard, he hoists himself out and onto the seat. He takes the time to rearrange the blanket in his lap before he lights up a cigarette. It’s a cold morning.

Maria Ross has gotten tan, and her hair’s a little wilder than it used to be, but otherwise she hasn’t changed much. As she gets closer, her eyes widen, and even as she dismounts she’s looking at Havoc’s wheelchair.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “We’ll have to catch you up on a few things.” Then he grins. “Thanks for answering the call.”

*

As it turns out, Maria Ross didn’t come empty-handed; the other two mules are carrying Xingese weapons, things that you can’t find in Aerugo like flash grenades and tear gas with extra pepper. They stash the crates with the others in the back of the general store, give the mules to Sterkis who’s got a little field behind his house, and they hide Ross at Brion’s place, passing her as her niece.

Havoc starts spending a lot of time there poring over Central maps with her. Driving a 10-ton truck in Central wouldn’t be easy on a regular day, and she will need to know all possible routes by heart. Havoc doesn’t know exactly when Mustang will start his attack but he’s pretty sure he knows where—the industrial district near Falman’s old apartment.

“Hold on. You’re not in contact with Mustang at all?” Ross asks.

“It’s too dangerous,” he answers absently, adding a few notes to the map in pencil. “He’s being watched more closely than ever since Armstrong killed Raven. They bought her act but it still made them nervous.” A moment later, he realizes she’s still staring at him and looks up. “What?”

“So you’ve set this all up by yourself? Completely independently?”

“Yeah, but...” He hesitates. “I know the major steps of Mustang’s plan. I’m confident enough we can meet him when and where it counts…”

She blinks. “No, lieutenant, I’m trying to tell you I’m _impressed.”_

“Oh.” He’s not sure how to react. “Thanks?”

He didn’t think he still looked like an officer, sitting here in his thick grey cable-knit sweater with a red checkered blanket over his legs—he gets cold much quicker than he used to. But Ross and Catalina are the same rank he used to be, and they haven’t questioned his authority once. He’s only realizing now maybe they’re following him for the same reason Brion and Sterkis do: because they trust that he knows what he’s doing.

She smiles at him. “Really, this is—” She looks at the map again. Her face gets more serious. “Thank you for getting me back in.”

Yeah, he thinks. She’s like him, in a way. Got kneecapped early, taken out. In the process of getting back in the game he’s brought her back, too.

“Well. Since we’re on the subject. I’ve got something else for you to do.” Now that it really hit him that they’re not calling him _boss_ as a joke, giving out orders makes him self-conscious all of a sudden. But her gaze immediately snaps back up.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Brion and Sterkis still think I’m out to destroy Mustang. It was simpler to let them believe that at first, but now I need to shift that focus to ‘destroying the conspiracy’ so they’re not surprised when they realize he’s the one leading the coup we’re supplying. Can you work on Brion? Since you’re living with her. I’ll deal with Sterkis.”

“Absolutely. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You can make it seem like I’m only realizing that, myself. We got new intel, we were wrong about Mustang from the start, the real enemy’s the brass, etc. Not Bradley, though, be careful about that.”

“Got it.” She frowns. “How _are_ we going to take out Bradley?”

“The plan’s to kill him as soon as possible and blame the brass for his death in the confusion. As for the specifics, I have no idea, especially since it turns out he won't even be in Central. If everything goes well they’ll have the First Lady on their side, which should help smooth things over.” He sighs and leans back in his wheelchair. “That’s assuming nothing else’s changed since the last time Mustang filled me in.”

“Even if everything’s changed, they can probably still find a use for a truck full of guns mid-action.”

It makes him smile. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a quiet moment. Then Ross says, “What about Edward and Alphonse?”

Havoc draws on his cigarette. “Last we heard, the Fullmetal went missing in Briggs. Taken out by Kimblee.”

_“What?”_

“They didn’t find his body. And four of Kimblee’s subordinates vanished around the same time. So…”

“Oh.” She looks pale. “I hope he’s all right.”

“I’m willing to bet he is. And planning something, too. He’s fully backing Mustang—he’s the one who figured out the giant array with Falman’s help.”

“How _is_ Falman? And—”

“I don’t know how any of them are doing.” He draws the map closer. “Do you mind finishing up here? I have to be at the store in forty minutes.”

*

Brion’s unsettled by Maria Ross’ new intel, but she buys it in the end. Havoc doesn’t have the same luck with Sterkis. He can’t find the words to convince him they’re still fighting the good fight even if they’re supporting Mustang. Sterkis spits at Havoc, says he won’t work for him anymore, slams the door on his way out. Havoc’s left rubbing the bridge of his nose and cursing himself quietly. Breda would have run circles around this guy.

The knot in Havoc’s stomach only grows tighter that afternoon as he works at the store. It’s too soon to stop the runs. He hopes he can convince Brion to keep going by herself. If she won’t do it, maybe he can offer Rebecca’s help. But as an army officer Rebecca can’t afford to get caught—even Grumman couldn’t cover for her—and Ross even less so. Up until now, working this thing helped Havoc feel settled enough in his own skin, but now the maddening frustration’s back. If he could only _walk,_ he would do it himself.

But if he could walk, he wouldn’t be planning this op in the first place.

When his mother comes to get him that night, he doesn’t fight her on it. He always ends up exhausted after a long day, and today’s felt longer than most. Besides, if she pushes him home he can smoke on the way.

“Jean,” she says that night as the house comes into view. “Is everything all right? You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Nothing important. Just got in an argument with Sterkis.”

“Oh.” She negotiates the difficult bit where the road’s cracked. “Antoine told me he noticed the back room was filling up.”

“Uh-huh. Side project of mine. We’ll clear it out soon.”

“What’s in those crates?”

He blows out smoke to the side so she won’t get it in her face. “Please don’t ask me that, Mom.”

She pushes him in silence for a little while.

“Jean, you’re out of the army,” she says eventually. “You don’t owe Roy Mustang anything. And if he can’t accept what he’s done to you, it’s not your job to make him feel better.”

Mothers, he thinks not for the first time, are terrifying. “He didn’t ask me to do this. I just want to help out.”

“Can’t anyone else do whatever it is you’re doing?”

“I want to do it, Mom,” he repeats patiently. “I have to finish what we’d started together. That way I can move on.”

She sighs. “When is _soon_?”

“Next month.” It feels terrible saying it out loud. “One way or another it’ll all be over next month.”

He has to convince Brion to keep going by herself.

*

A month is nothing.

Havoc’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Time’s up. He’s done all he could. Brion went back into Aerugo three more times. He’s gathered up weapons, ammunitions, medical supplies, even food and water just in case. The truck’s been stocked up slowly over the past week. No more runs.

Now that they’re on the eve of battle, it all feels laughable. They’re up against something so old and so vicious; its roots go so deep. What does he think he’s doing, with his one little truck packed with stupid war toys?

He lights up a cigarette. He’s almost back to two packs a day. Blowing the smoke upwards, he allows himself to think about Breda. If everything went according to plan, he must have deserted by now. He must be heading for Central.

Breda wouldn’t see Havoc’s truck as a waste of energy; he’d salute it as a concrete attempt at _something_. And he wouldn’t care that it might fail. He never gets upset when something doesn’t work out.

The alarm clock on the nightstand goes off. 2:30 am already. Havoc turns it off, stubs out his cigarette and straightens up with a mighty effort. He slips on his sweater and jacket, lifts himself into his chair, then wheels down the hallway and out of the house.

The truck’s parked outside. Ross and Catalina are right on time, ready to go.

“Okay,” he tells them. “Remember, call me as soon as you get there, because when you're on the move—”

“—we won’t be able to keep in touch,” Catalina finishes for him.

He smiles. “Sorry. You already know.”

He was aware staying back would be tough, but he didn’t think it would be _this_ tough. Now he knows how Mustang felt during the whole Barry thing. If Havoc could drop all his careful plans and barge onto the scene mid-op he probably would, too.

“I have every faith in you,” he says. “Be careful out there.”

Maria Ross gives him a firm handshake. “We won’t let you down, boss.”

“No we won’t.” Shaking his hand too, Rebecca’s looking every bit as confident as he knows her to be. She lowers her voice. “Hey. Do you need me to pass on a message to someone?”

She guessed it was somebody in Central. This is what Havoc gets for surrounding himself with people smarter than he is. He shakes his head. “Just keep them all alive.”

The truck drives off into the night and he stays there watching the red lights until they’ve completely disappeared from view. Then he turns around and wheels himself down the street. It’s the middle of the night, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like he’s going back to sleep. He’s off to do what he said he would do the day he was discharged from the army: answer the phone at his parents’ general store.

*

It rings around six in the morning. Next to him the ashtray’s full of stubs and he’s already starting on a new cigarette.

 _“Hey, boss. No problems on the road. We’re in position.”_ It’s Catalina. _“There’s just been an explosion in the warehouse district.”_

He exhales. That’s one thing he got right. 

“Okay, stay put for now.” He turns on the radio without looking, sets it low so it won’t interfere with the call. “Are you patched into military comms?”

_“We’re trying, but the signal’s crap.”_

“What frequency are you using, 419 Hz? Try 423 Hz. It works better where you are.”

The static in the back resolves itself into something clearer. _“Yep. Got it. Do you want to listen in directly with Fuery’s trick?”_

Out of all of Fuery’s innovations, that one’s Havoc’s favorite. It’s from the Barry op—instead of spending a lot of effort connecting their clandestine channel to Mustang’s official army line, Fuery simply duct-taped a military radio to a phone.

“Maybe later,” he says. “Just tell me what you hear for now.”

She listens for a bit then says, “ _They already figured out it’s Mustang.”_

“Wasn’t a hard guess.”

_“He’s got the First Lady with him, must have kidnapped her during the night. They’re sending in three squads.”_

“Mm. I’m not too worried.”

Another staticky pause. The radio next to him isn’t signaling anything out of the ordinary yet, chattering about the weather. Catalina again: _“They’ve got Mustang and his team in visual. Five people.”_

“Any names?”

_“Besides Mrs. Bradley and Mustang—Hawkeye, Fuery, Breda.”_

He closes his eyes and blows out smoke.

 _“Squad C5 and C6 lost their jeeps. Fifty-nine wounded, no dead.”_ Another pause. _“They’re sending in two more squads.”_

Just then Havoc’s radio comes alive with flash news, which is when he realizes it’s tuned to the Eastern Channel instead of Radio Capital. Turns out that was a stroke of luck because he learns something he wouldn’t have found out until much later otherwise. He listens to the whole thing then tunes back to Radio Capital, picking up the phone again. “Looks like they got Bradley.”

Both Catalina and Ross answer, _“What?”_

“They just said so on the Eastern Channel. His train got blown up on the way back to Central.”

 _“Oh, that’s good! That’s really good.”_ Rebecca sounds impressed. _“They can blame something like that on just about anyone.”_

“Yep. How’s Mustang doing?”

_“They’re sending in all available squads. He’s got more people with him now. A whole platoon.”_

Sounds like nearly all of Mustang’s old team from Ishbal showed up. Can’t deny the colonel’s popular in his own way.

 _“The Fullmetal!”_ That’s Ross shouting. _“The Fullmetal Alchemist’s been spotted with two of Kimblee’s subordinates and—Scar?”_

“Scar?” Havoc repeats, perplexed. He knows Edward rivals Mustang when it comes to making unlikely allies, but he still didn’t see that one coming. “Well. Okay. What are they doing?”

 _“Unclear—comms just mentioned they broke into a military lab,”_ Catalina says.

Havoc’s abdomen scar starts burning and itching. It would be more of a freaky coincidence if his entire body wasn’t randomly aching at any given time. He shoves his free hand under his sweater to dig his nails into his side, pressing the phone harder against his ear.

 _“A lab…”_ Of course Ross knows what that’s about, too. _“They’re going straight for the homunculi.”_

“Sounds like it.”

Because what Mustang’s doing is only ensuring they get to keep the country if they save it. But that’s a big if. The real fight will be yet to come after they secure the president’s seat.

Suddenly there’s a jumble of swears from Catalina and Ross.

“What?” Havoc says urgently. “What’s happening?”

“ _Armstrong—”_

“Major Armstrong?”

_“General Armstrong—apparently she just started slaughtering the brass in HQ.”_

Havoc’s well aware that for all that Armstrong and Mustang are functionally allies, what’s happening here is also a race to the top. The general’s frontal assault will be more efficient but might undermine her in the long run, and if Mustang has to blame the whole thing on her, he will.

Then again, she murdered Raven and somehow got herself a seat at Bradley’s table; who’s to say she can’t pull something like that twice? No point thinking too far ahead in the future, not when things are still happening so fast.

“Okay,” he says. “That means Briggs’ moving in.”

Which means now’s the time. Catalina confirms it instantly. _“They just said Mustang’s team was being less aggressive. Seems like they’re running low on ammo.”_

There’s nothing left to say but, “Go.”

He hears the rumble of the truck coming to life. Catalina says, _“We’ll be in touch as soon as we can, boss. Stay by the phone.”_

 _“Thanks for everything,”_ Ross adds in the distance.

“Good luck,” he answers, and hangs up before they do.

*

The next few hours are the longest of his whole life.

He has to open the store at eight, so there actually are clients hanging around while he sits here trying to maintain a modicum of calm. Thankfully no one’s surprised he would leave the radio on, even though they frown at his channel of choice—Radio Capital isn’t exactly popular in these parts.

When the phone rings he picks it up instantly. “Hello?”

 _“Hey, boss.”_ Ross’ voice is full of barely-contained mischief, and he relaxes all at once: nothing’s gone wrong. Not yet. _“We’ve made our delivery, and just in time, too. Colonel Mustang would like to thank his mysterious benefactor.”_

At that he can’t help grinning like a maniac.

The ensuing conversation is—honestly—the greatest moment of his life so far. It more than makes up for the pain and doubt of these past few months. The best part is that past his original shock, Mustang doesn’t seem surprised by what Havoc’s managed to pull; he sounds _vindicated._ It reminds Havoc of what he said all those years ago. _You’ve raised my expectations, lieutenant._ Well, no one can say Havoc’s let anyone down.

After he’s hung up again he rides that high for the rest of the morning, listening to Radio Capital in the middle of a small but growing crowd of clients who finally realized something huge was going on. If anyone finds it weird that Havoc had already tuned in before it all started, they don’t comment on it. The broadcast is just one victory after another. Thanks to their brand new equipment and weaponry, Mustang’s team is tearing through Central unimpeded. Each of Havoc’s cigarettes tastes like the finest Drachman cigar.

Around noon some of Mustang’s people barge into the Radio Capital studio, and all of a sudden they’re literally making the news. A tearful Mrs. Bradley professes in front of the entire country that Mustang is a selfless hero who’s courageously defended her from rogue Central troops. Oh, now would be the _perfect_ time to announce that Bradley’s train was attacked—

And then Breda comes on the air and says just that. Havoc smiles around his cigarette. His smile turns into a full-on grin again when Breda, dead serious, concludes with _“It’s clear now that the top brass has been trying to overthrow President Bradley. We’ll do everything we can to defend our country.”_

“Asshole,” Havoc mumbles fondly.

It’s not perfect by any means. By the beginning of the afternoon it becomes clear that even though they’re generally winning, Briggs is ahead. Mustang was slowed down fighting his way to the radio station from the warehouse district, and in the meantime Armstrong’s troops took over HQ. Havoc wonders how they got past the barred gates, which according to Radio Capital are still locked up. Maybe an alchemist helped them dig a way through. Perhaps Alphonse Elric? In any case, the colonel’s late, and no one’s spotted him in a while. It’s possible he went straight for the homunculi. Maybe he’s made the choice to save the country even if it means he can’t keep it—

That’s when King Bradley reappears.

“Shit,” Havoc hisses between his teeth. On the radio, Breda takes it in stride, blaming the Briggs troops which are now openly attacking the president. But it’s a temporary measure at best. If Bradley gets into HQ everything will be lost for both Armstrong and Mustang.

Havoc flips through the other Central channels; from here in the East it’s hard to get good reception, and he can’t make out anything through the static. Going back to Radio Capital, he hears Maria Ross on the air flinging words like ‘truth’ and ‘justice’ around. If she’s arrived at the radio station—

The phone rings a second later and he just about rips it from its stand.

 _“Hey, boss.”_ She sounds strained. _“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier.”_

“It’s all good. I’ve been following you on Radio Capital. Listen—don’t waste your time keeping me updated. Let’s do Fuery’s trick.”

Soon enough he’s got the military comms chattering right in his ear. The doors to HQ haven’t broken open yet, despite Bradley’s best efforts. He’s fighting _something_ at the front gate—going by the panicked descriptions of the Central soldiers it sounds like a homunculus. Which one? Why are they suddenly turning against their own? Havoc doesn’t know and doesn’t care. The important thing is that the gate’s holding, holding—

_“The president’s down! President Bradley fell into the moat, I repeat, President Bradley fell into the moat!”_

Havoc slams his fist down onto the counter, drawing curious looks. He’s chewing his cigarette so hard he’s practically eating it. They can still win. They’re so _close_. With Bradley out of the picture, Armstrong can keep HQ together and that’s the most important part. Really, it doesn’t matter if Mustang’s the one in the president’s seat. Now all that matters is the other fight, the real one. There’s no way for Havoc to follow them into the dark underground, no radio, no eyes on the ground. There’s no way for him to know what’s happening…

The birds outside fall silent.

A dog starts barking like crazy, then another, then another.

Havoc looks outside the window. The sun’s being eaten by the moon. As the darkness falls, there’s a massive vibration, like the country’s turned into a giant drum. He can feel it throb in his whole body, and it’s not fading—it’s only getting stronger—

He drops the phone.

Barry talked about how they ripped his soul from his body, how bad it hurt. All around him the clients falter, clutching at their chest, falling to their knees. He braces against the counter, screws his eyes shut. It feels like Solaris is stabbing him again, going deep, severing all of him. He’s losing not just his legs this time, but everything else, too. His arms, his eyes, his ears. His mind.

Can he fight it? Through the agony he thinks of Breda tracing the Student’s Array on a table. The wood shaving off and morphing back into a bird. You can’t fight something like that. You just fold.

He folds.

*

His eyes blink open. Everything’s blurry. Everything hurts.

There’s blood in his mouth. He spits it out, tries to get up. Right. Legs not working. He tries pushing with his arms instead. It’s just as hard.

Someone grabs him, hoists him back into his chair. His eyes won’t focus. All he can see is red. When he frowns he feels a shooting pain in his brow. Must have split it falling out of his chair. That’s where the blood comes from.

_“Boss!”_

“Yeah,” he manages thickly. His hand feels so damn heavy when he raises it up to wipe his eyes. “Sterkis?”

“What happened?” Yeah, it’s Sterkis. “I know you know what happened.”

He does know. They lost.

Then it occurs to him, blurrily, that he’s not dead. Or at least not anymore.

“Sterkis,” he repeats. “Did you feel that?”

“I think everyone felt that!”

Havoc keeps rubbing the blood out of his eyes. He wants to keep them closed for just another second. “You’re calling me boss again.”

“Just—” Sterkis pleads, frantic. “Just tell me the truth. Did Mustang have anything to do with what just happened? _Tell me._ ”

Havoc finally opens his eyes. Sterkis is looking at him with desperate intensity. All around them, the clients are still crumpled on the floor where they fell. Outside everything’s still dead silent.

“Mustang was trying to stop it,” Havoc says slowly.

“It’s not about the coup. It’s about something much bigger. And you were working for him from the beginning. Weren’t you?”

“Yeah, Sterkis. Sorry.” Mustang. Breda. Havoc remembers the phone, the phone Ross strapped to a military radio at the other end of the line. It’s still hanging over the counter. He reels it back up and brings it to his ear. There’s just static.

Outside a bird starts singing.

Havoc drops the phone again and grabs Sterkis’ jacket. “I need you to drive me to Central.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, i still love jean havoc so much, can't wait to read your thoughts in the comments,
> 
> next chapter: breda's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time on the nationwide array


	7. Chapter 7

Pendleton’s not a nice place. Breda’s pretty certain he would think that even if he hadn’t been sent here as a hostage in all but name. The weather’s shit most of the time, and his apartment’s a dump even by his standards, moldy and cramped with no hot water. He knows the brass slashed his pay hoping he’d settle for the barracks, which was honestly a bit insulting—he’s not going to make it _that_ easy for them.

Once again, he picked a place close to the train station, which allows him to go and call Falman and Fuery on a semi-regular basis. No one can listen in on all the public phone lines at once, and he picks one at random every time. He still won’t risk calling Central. But since Falman’s in touch with Mustang through Armstrong’s gardener, intel does trickle down to him eventually.

When he learns about the nationwide array, Breda’s disappointed in himself for not figuring it out earlier. All the pieces fit perfectly and he can now see the whole. He thought his men were being sent to their deaths without rhyme or logic; knowing they’re actually dying for a _purpose_ is somehow worse.

 _“Your men?”_ Falman asks on the line.

“I’m a field officer here.” He’s wasted as one, which is of course why they made it so. It’s the same for Falman in Briggs, a walking databank knocking icicles off gutters, and Fuery in the trenches, a communications expert under constant mind-numbing fire. Mustang had seen their talents and elevated their gifts; Bradley’s making sure to squander them. Dying is all they’re truly good for.

There’s no relief to be found in Breda’s new squad. He didn’t trust easily before and doesn’t trust at all now. Colonel Edwin Kripke and First Lieutenant Norland Valbert-Massy are probably too low-ranked to be part of the conspiracy, but they’re still happy to feed the slaughter. Breda’s intel counterpart, Second Lieutenant Stein Simon, is an unpleasant individualist who doesn’t seem to think or care about what’s happening on the field. Their sergeant, Lily Daelsen, looks too young and too sweet for the west, and if anything Breda’s even warier of her for it.

 _“What about your warrant officer?”_ Falman asks.

“Don’t have one. He died before I got here and hasn’t been replaced yet.”

Every time, before he hangs up, Falman tells him to be careful. Breda honestly tries, especially since he’s promised the same thing to Mustang. He blankly relays orders he knows will cause the death of dozens of men. In other circumstances he would have at least tried contesting them, but a sergeant from another unit attempted that already and promptly got executed for insubordination. Any death goes.

After a couple of weeks, Breda does start toeing the line. When Colonel Kripke tells him to gain two kilometers of ground by the end of the day, he pushes onwards in the wrong direction and feigns confusion later. Another time he halts a whole operation by puncturing the tires of his own jeep and blaming rough terrain. Soon enough he earns the mistrust and contempt of his men, which is just a bonus—if they’re undisciplined they’re even more inefficient, which means they don’t die as fast. In HQ he spills coffee on his shirt so he’ll be late conveying reports, drops his paperwork in puddles so he’ll have to do it all over again, asks people to repeat simple instructions over and over. One day he makes himself publicly throw up so he can call in sick and be unavailable for a crucial assignment, irritating his subordinates and his superiors alike. Within two months of his arrival in Pendleton he’s gained a reputation as unlucky, slow and incompetent.

Of course he can’t be outright dismissed from Kripke’s squad; he doesn’t doubt the man’s been told to keep an eye on him. At first he only gets admonitions, then written reprimands, to the point that he has to open a folder for them on his desk. Valbert-Massy and Simon sneer at him every time the pile grows. Half of his already meager pay goes up in smoke with all the fines he’s accumulating. Then his punishments turn more concrete—endless parade drills, restrictions, extra duty to the point that he’s sleeping only four hours a night. He welcomes it all, since it’s another justification for botching up his work. But when he wrecks yet another field operation Valbert-Massy decides he’s had enough and sends him to five days of solitary confinement.

Sergeant Daelsen is the one to bring Breda to the disciplinary barracks. “You’re on diminished rations,” she tells him shyly. “That means…”

“I know what it means,” Breda says gruffly.

“And you… you have to give me your jacket. Um. And your shoes. I’m sorry.”

That part is not regulation, but he stays impassive, unbuttoning his jacket. “You don’t have to apologize, Daelsen. See you in five days.”

After the door locks behind him he surveys his new domain. Six square meters of bare concrete. A toilet seat and a bed without blankets. It’s the middle of winter, and he’s already shivering. Still, when it comes to slowing down his own work, it doesn’t get any better than this. That’s the kind of thing he can call a victory these days.

He sits down on the mattress with a groan. At least work kept him from dwelling on personal matters. But in here, alone with his thoughts, he won’t be able to help thinking about Havoc.

Breda doesn’t even know if he regrets what he did. In that moment he suddenly wanted Havoc to know. And maybe he deserved to know; for all that Breda never felt guilty about keeping some things from him while they worked together, maybe it was right to leave him with all the pieces, finally.

But now he’s tormented by the idea of Havoc thinking he was resenting their friendship this whole time, enduring it only as a consolation prize. In truth these feelings were Breda’s to deal with, and if he was ever frustrated, it was only with himself. He wishes he could go back and tell him that. He wishes he could talk to him just for five minutes.

Sighing, he curls up with his back to the wall to preserve as much body heat as he can. At least he can catch up on sleep in here.

*

Four days later Breda’s pulled out of the hole by Lieutenant Simon.

“I still have one day to go,” he tells him.

Simon doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “Be in Kripke’s office at 8am sharp. If I were you, I wouldn’t be late.”

The water’s actually warm in the barracks, and Breda’s tempted to enjoy it for an extra half hour. Of course, that might get him sent right back to confinement. But doesn’t he _want_ his work to grind to a standstill? Can he not take it anymore already? As he shaves, his reflection looks unimpressed with him. Falman pleaded, _Be careful._ Mustang commanded, _Stay alive._ Pushing it almost got Breda executed back in East City, and it’s much easier to die here in Pendleton. Not the kind of standstill he’s after.

In the end the hot water runs out, putting an end to his dilemma.

Freshly dressed and shaved, feeling marginally more human if still very hungry, he reports to Kripke’s office. Of course they make him wait, but the corridor’s warm and he passes the time thinking of what he’ll eat for lunch. When the door finally opens he gets up and walks in, wondering what they’ve got in store for him.

“Ah, there you are.” That’s not Kripke’s voice. “Come closer, lieutenant.”

Breda’s suddenly glad he’s on an empty stomach. As he walks up to the desk he looks at the bars on Forveilles’ shoulders. Lieutenant General. And people said Mustang climbed ranks too fast.

Behind the desk stands Dietrich, who despite his own new stripes apparently still officiates as Forveilles’ aide. Back in East City, they were just faceless drones. In Central, Breda never interacted with them directly beyond that first-day briefing. Now it seems he’s going to get to know them both much better.

“I’m taking commandment of Pendleton HQ,” Forveilles confirms in his dry, thin voice. “We’ve met before, haven’t we, lieutenant?”

Breda says nothing. Forveilles pushes his wire-frame glasses up his nose and takes a closer look at the disciplinary file open in front of him. “Strange performance. Your previous reviews from Colonel Mustang were all stellar.”

“He always had a soft spot for me.”

“Mm. And now that you’re truly being tested, you’re found lacking. Is that what’s happening here?”

“I’m doing my best, sir,” Breda says honestly.

Forveilles meets his eyes and in that moment they both know, without a doubt, that the other’s aware of the conspiracy.

“Well, Mustang’s irrelevant now,” Forveilles says. “But maybe some of your old teammates would help you focus? Sending in a request for Sergeant Fuery wouldn’t be much trouble.”

Even a mind like Forveilles’ will be subconsciously biased by how Breda looks. Just some fat guy out of his depth, struggling to keep up. Now he’s even got the performance review to prove it. It helps that sleeping in a cold cell isn’t all that restful, that he’s got dark circles under his eyes, a crooked collar, a blot of shaving cream under his chin that he was careful not to wipe off.

So he shrugs like he didn’t understand Forveilles’ threat. “I’m an investigation specialist, sir,” he says mulishly. “Field’s not my forte whoever’s on my team.”

Whining is never a good look. Dietrich helps him by audibly snorting at the thought that Breda could be a competent intelligence officer. Forveilles closes his file. “Then you’ll just have to get better, lieutenant.”

*

And Breda will indeed have to, because they’re hostages not only to Mustang but also to each other. At least now he knows for sure that Fuery’s still alive even if he hasn’t been in touch for the past few weeks, because he really is Forveilles’ only leverage; Falman’s relatively safe in the north, and Mustang and Hawkeye wouldn’t be sacrificed just to get one of their former underlings to behave.

As much as he doesn’t want to let that thought into his mind, Breda’s glad Havoc’s out of the game.

He missed a phone call with Falman while he was in confinement. Should he miss them all from now on? Is he being watched more closely than before? At times he’s convinced Forveilles came from Central specifically to pressure him, and at others he tells himself that he’s delusional, that he’s too unimportant to justify something like that. Forveilles does remember him from the Himelstein case, that much is certain. In the end Breda opts for a compromise—he’ll answer Falman one last time and tell him they have to stop.

He goes to the train station, gives his name and waits to be called. Eventually the operator directs him to booth n°5, where the phone’s already ringing.

_“Hello?”_

He freezes. It’s Hawkeye.

“L—” He stops himself. “Elizabeth. Nice to hear from you.”

If he didn’t know her so well, he wouldn’t hear the relief in her voice. _“You didn’t answer last week.”_

“Something came up.” They both know she wouldn’t take a risk like that—two weeks in a row, no less—if she didn’t have some crucial information to share. “Did you have something to tell me? I gotta get back to HQ. New boss won’t leave me alone for a minute.”

 _“I’ve heard.”_ Of course she’d know Forveilles and Dietrich are in Pendleton. _“It’s about my cousin’s wedding, on March 20 th. I was wondering—could you get there the day before to help us set up?”_

All the fading lights inside Breda suddenly flare bright.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment of vertigo. “Yeah, of course I’ll be there.”

_“Great. We can meet at Maria’s. I know her place is a bit of a dump…”_

The dumpster where Maria Ross was replaced with her own corpse. “It’s done the trick last time. Anyone else coming?”

 _“Some invites came back in the mail.”_ So she hasn’t heard from Fuery either. _“See you soon, then.”_

After he hangs up he closes his eyes for just a second. The second turns into a minute, then three, then five. He’s startled by someone knocking on the glass, telling him to get a move on if he’s done.

He’s the furthest thing from done.

*

That very afternoon he liberates a transceiver from HQ. Fuery’s taught him enough that Breda has no trouble setting it up by the window—the only dry place in his damp apartment. Putting on the headphones, he finds the frequency he wants then starts talking.

“1, E4, E5. 2, KF3, KC6. 3, BB5, A6. 4, BA4, KF6.” He goes on like this until he gets to the end and signs off with, “D.R.A.W.”

After that he goes to bed with an extra blanket and sleeps like the dead.

From then on, he settles for mediocre work instead of disastrous failure. As a result, his squad’s body count keeps rising; ever since Forveilles arrived the operations have gotten even bloodier. He’s losing an average of ten men a week, and that’s just his own team. Kripke appears satisfied. Valbert-Massy’s dubious. Simon regarded Breda with contempt back when he rebelled, and regards him with contempt now that he’s complying. Daelsen seems anxious for him; Breda still suspects her to be a spy for high command.

The absence of reprimands means he gets a little more time to himself instead of wasting it on parade drills and extra duties. He spends it all in his apartment, repeating his D.R.A.W. message over and over again. He switches frequencies a few times, not too often. Two weeks later he’s repeated his message so many times he knows it by heart, though he still keeps the book open at the right page. _1, E4, E5. D.R.A.W._

It’s March 18th before something finally happens.

Daelsen comes up to his desk just as he’s about to leave. “Lieutenant, I was thinking we could—maybe go out? For a drink?”

He has no problem staring at her like he’s dumb. “What?”

“As friends,” she says nervously. “I mean as colleagues. I just wanted to get to know you better. Um. You know. There’s no need for you to go home so early tonight. You can also get out every once in a while. Have a good time.”

 _Oh_ , Breda thinks. Looks like she was genuine after all. He’s moved that she’d try helping him now, especially in this inexpert way, risking so much. It’s not like he’s been particularly nice to her.

“Sorry, Daelsen, I’m busy.”

“I’d—I’d really like it if you could…”

“I said I’m busy,” he repeats gruffly, and leaves her there.

*

That night, after he’s changed in an untucked shirt and threadbare black pants, he sits in front of his transceiver for fifteen minutes. When he finally puts the headphones on, the words come by themselves. He’s on _37, F3, BE6_ when the door behind him opens.

“That’ll be all, lieutenant.”

Breda stills. Then, slowly, he puts down the headset and turns around.

Forveilles is leisurely pointing a gun at him. A glance outside the window shows a black car parked along the sidewalk. Dietrich’s standing guard; they came alone, as Breda suspected they would. Last time they’d come alone too.

“Isn’t this nostalgic?” Forveilles says. Seems like he’s also thinking of the past. “You really aren’t good for much without Mustang to cover up for you.”

He’s moving slowly towards the transceiver, the open book next to it. Breda gets up and moves along the wall just as slowly, always keeping the same distance between them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself. We’ve been listening to your broadcasts for days. Though I have to confess we haven’t cracked your code yet.” Forveilles’ reached the transceiver. He’s keeping his eyes and his weapon on Breda. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me now.”

“So you don’t play chess at all?”

Forveilles frowns by a fraction.

Breda says, “It’s not code. It’s a chess game. The final round at the Central Masters last year, Lasker VS Bernstein. Ended with a draw.” He’s never been so calm. “Look at the book if you don’t believe me.”

Forveilles glances down at the book—and Breda shoots him.

His apartment’s so small he never had a chance to miss. The bullet hits Forveilles below the heart and slams him back against the wall. He slides down to the floor, his glasses askew, his eyes wide.

Breda lowers the gun he’s drawn from his waistband. It’s always the same with military personnel; show them a soldier in civvies and they won’t imagine he might be armed. Plus he’s worked hard to make sure Forveilles would underestimate him.

Blood’s bubbling at Forveilles’ mouth. He drags in a horrible breath. “You’re completely insane. Dietrich will…”

“Dietrich will come up if he wasn’t supposed to hear a gunshot,” Breda agrees, crouching next to him. He takes his service weapon, his military ID, his radio. He unclips the bars on his shoulders.

“Who… were you signalling?”

“You. I was starting to think you’d never take the bait.” When he straightens up, Breda looks outside the window. Dietrich hasn’t moved.

Bringing up the radio to his mouth, Breda imitates the sharp intake of breath Forveilles always draws before he speaks. The shitty transmission will hide the actual tone of his voice. “He’s got an accomplice. She just left out the back door. Brown hair, red jacket, hurry!”

Down below Dietrich snaps out of his parade rest and takes off, drawing out his gun. Nobody wears red except for lunatics like Edward Elric, so there’s little chance he’ll grab an innocent person. Inside the car the lights are still on; he left the keys in the ignition. People tend to do that when they’re confident they have the situation under control.

Breda grabs the go bag he’d packed weeks ago. His hands are slightly shaking. Maybe he’s not that calm. Forveilles is still staring at him; his breathing is so ragged now it’s almost unbearable to hear.

“You know,” Breda tells him. “I’m really not a good field officer. I almost want to help you.” If not for Himelstein maybe he would have.

*

Fotset is four hours away. When he’s in the middle of nowhere, Breda parks the black car along the dark road, turns off all the lights and gets out to zip open his duffel bag. It’s a full moon so he can see what he’s doing just fine.

As he changes into his uniform, he notices his hands are still shaking. When Havoc killed a man for the first time it was as though the light inside of him had turned off; it took several weeks to come back. Breda doesn’t feel like that at all. Under the shock and the adrenalin he’s fiercely, obscenely _satisfied_. As with all things about himself, he takes a good look at his reaction, makes a few mental notes then files it away.

He flicks out his pocket knife and guts his leather-padded ID to extract his picture. Then he snips open Forveilles’ ID and slides his own photo over the man’s face. He doesn’t have time to sew it back shut so he applies a few drops of glue and hopes it’ll hold. After that he pins Forveilles’ bars to his shoulders, gets back into the car and drives off.

It’s four am by the time he gets to the frontlines. The first time he’s stopped by a sentinel, he just hands out his ID without looking, with his best bored look. As soon as the girl sees his rank she hands the papers back, signals his arrival on the radio and snaps a salute.

Now it’s make or break. Breda doesn’t know if whoever’s in charge here ever met Forveilles face-to-face. It’s not _likely,_ since Forveilles spent most of his career in Central, but it’s possible.

He goes through the forest without trouble, dirtying up the car’s black flanks in the muddy road leading to the Fotset front. When he gets to the first outpost he leaves the lights on and gets out, slamming the door behind him. He stands tall in a way he never does, throws his shoulders back, looks at everything with haughtiness and disdain. Everyone around him freezes up and stands at rigid attention. So this is what being a high-ranking officer is like.

“General Forveilles!” A man’s hurriedly coming out of the barracks, straightening up his uniform. Nothing like a surprise visit to throw people off-balance. As the officer comes closer, Breda’s heart starts hammering. He wills himself to say calm, tries to make out the man’s face in the dark.

When he does his blood ices down in his veins. It’s Major General Halcrow.

What the _hell_ is he doing in the south? Breda dreaded the possibility of the officer in charge already knowing Forveilles; he never imagined they might know _him._ Different options flash through his head. He can’t get away with shooting his way out of here. It’s too late to go back into the car. He could keep standing in the lights so his face will be obscured, but that trick can’t save him forever. In the end he steps forward and waits.

Halcrow finishes buttoning up his uniform and salutes, slightly out of breath. Breda waits for the squint, the sudden spark of recognition, the anger and the call for alarm. But nothing comes. Halcrow just stands rigid, looking more and more nervous with every second.

He doesn’t recognize Breda. He’s spent most of his career trying to undermine Mustang, crossing paths with him every other week in East City HQ, arguing over him and complaining about him, and he never noticed Breda.

 _That’s_ the best compliment Breda’s ever received in his entire career as an intel officer.

“Right,” he says so sharply everyone around him flinches. “Thank you, back to work. General, a word.”

They all drop out of attention and scurry away in relief. Now that the buzzing in his ears is lessening, he can hear artillery booms in the distance. Halcrow steps closer and Breda gives him a dry nod. “Sorry for pulling you out of bed, Halcrow. I’m here to arrest Kain Fuery. Can you get him here as fast as possible? His pack, too. He won’t be coming back.”

Halcrow doesn’t seem surprised at the request, or that he’s come in person. Forveilles really _has_ been in touch with him about Mustang’s subordinates, and of course it’s a need-to-know matter. “Shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”

“Good. Be quick about it.” Breda’s heart has slowed down, but it’s still pounding so hard it’s a wonder no one else can hear it. “And fill up my car. I have to be back in Pendleton by morning.”

*

He enjoys a cup of coffee in the officers’ barracks while people hurry to fulfil his request. In the distance the shelling doesn’t stop for a minute. Breda knew the southern trenches were worse than Pendleton’s battlefield, but for all that Fuery always sounded drawn on the phone, he never let on just how bad it was.

Eventually a warrant officer comes to get him, letting him know Sergeant Kain Fuery’s at his disposal in the disciplinary barracks. Breda gets up and follows.

The officer opens the door for him. Fuery’s sitting there, scraped and bruised. His look of anger and fear morphs into complete bafflement when Breda walks in.

“Right,” Breda says. “Get up, sergeant. I don’t have all night.”

Fuery, eyes wide, slowly gets up, shoulders his pack and follows him out of the room. Breda grabs his upper arm once they’re in the hallway and marches him out of the barracks. His car’s waiting in a corner, shiny and black again—someone’s actually washed it.

“Wait!”

Breda throws a glance over his shoulder. The warrant officer from earlier ran out to follow them. “Where are you taking him? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

More soldiers come out to see what’s happening. When they see Fuery’s being taken away they look indignant; he always was loved by his subordinates wherever he went. Breda can hear distant yells. _They’re arresting the sarge!_ A small crowd’s gathering up fast.

“I’m okay,” Fuery calls back. “Everyone stand down. I’m okay.”

“But—”

“I said _stand down_ , Baxter!” Fuery’s a good sergeant and can shout like one when he needs to. “Don’t get in trouble over me. That’s an _order._ ” He gives them a smile. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Baxter looks helpless for a moment, then salutes. Everyone else does. Breda tugs Fuery into the car before a superior officer comes out to see what the fuss is all about, then gets behind the wheel, slams the door shut and floors it.

As soon as they’ve rounded the bend Fuery starts yelling and laughing and Breda does too, drunk with sudden overpowering relief; the car jumps over a pothole and they scream and they laugh some more.

“Lieutenant!” Fuery shouts, “how did you pull that off! Lieutenant, what the hell! How did you do that?”

Breda’s grinning so widely it’s hurting his face. The car bumps its way forward through the forest. When they come out he takes a sharp turn and climbs back onto the main road. As they drive away, the artillery booms fade in the distance behind them.

Fuery’s still besides himself. “When they told me—and when you walked in—I almost said your name! I almost ruined everything!”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” Breda shifts gears, still smiling. “You were the only part of the plan I could rely on.”

He’s been good, but mostly he’s been lucky. Dietrich must have found Forveilles’ body by now. If he’d guessed Breda was heading for Fotset, if he’d warned Halcrow ahead of time, if Fuery had been impossible to find quickly, or so badly injured he couldn’t be moved—they’ve both been _very_ lucky.

“Are we meeting Mustang?” Fuery asks, marginally calmer.

“He’s waiting for us in Central.”

“Why now? Did something happen?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know in a minute.” Breda doesn’t want to extinguish their euphoria just yet. “There’s a duffel bag in the back seat. Patch yourself up, eat something.”

*

A hundred kilometers away from Fotset they feel safe enough to stop by the side of the road. Breda ditches his uniform again, maybe for good, and puts on his Telmani trench over his civvies; if he’s going to face certain death he’ll do it in style. Fuery doesn’t have a change of clothes in his pack, but his coat is so tattered and dirty that he looks more like an Ishbalan refugee than a soldier anyway. Breda’s filled him in on everything, including Hawkeye’s mysterious rendezvous for what must be a coup. _Upsetting the board_ , the one move they’ve got left. Why March 20th? Breda can only assume the date’s been determined by the enemy, otherwise Mustang wouldn’t have rushed it like that. What’s the plan? Will it just be the five of them—assuming Falman even makes it—and if so, how can they hope to succeed?

None of that really matters. Just knowing Mustang needed them was enough for the both of them to answer the call.

In the end Fuery doesn’t ask the whole story of how Breda stole Forveilles’ identity, so he keeps it to himself. Volunteering the details would feel like bragging, and despite this stubborn feeling of satisfaction for a job well done, he doesn’t want to be the kind of person who’s proud of killing a man.

As they get back into the car, Fuery asks, “What about Lieutenant Havoc?”

“He’s been released from the hospital. He’s back in the east.” Breda could turn the car away from Central, follow the back roads, be in Angren by dawn. He could walk into the general store, maybe find him there, smoking a cigarette behind the counter. The fantasy hurts, so he makes it go away.

“That’s good. They can’t use him as a hostage.” As Breda starts the car Fuery adds, “I can drive for a bit if you want, lieutenant.”

“Fuery, I literally pulled you from the trenches. Get some rest. I’ll wake you up halfway to Central.”

In the end Breda doesn’t wake him up. He’s enjoying the long drive in the dark, this strange quiet freedom after the long months in Pendleton. He’s comforted by Fuery’s regular breaths over the background hum of the car, the moonlight shining off the pitch-black road, the feeling of finally _doing_ something again.

*

They run out of gas in the first hours of the morning, still a solid ten kilometers away from Central. Yawning, Fuery helps him push the car into the bushes, then shoulders his pack and off they go. They can afford to walk on the road, because if someone’s coming they’ll hear them long before they see them.

By noon they’ve reached the city. They head for the slums at the end of the warehouse district, where Breda met with Fu back during the Maria Ross op. He covers up his hair—redheads aren’t that common and it’d be stupid to get spotted now. Getting something to eat is easy enough; dirty and rumpled as they are, they fit right in, and nobody asks any questions. After that they find a dry corner and settle down to get some rest.

When the night falls, they head for the warehouse next to which Maria Ross was spirited away. It’s dark and there’s no one around. As they slip inside the massive empty building, Breda hears a dog’s inquisitive _ruff._

He really doesn’t like dogs, ever since he got bit so badly as a child; it’s not like he can talk his way out of that kind of attack. But Fuery loves them and, furthermore, recognizes that one. “Hayate?”

Hawkeye comes out of the shadows, the little dog alert by her side. There’s relief on her face and also traces of delighted surprise, for which Breda’s secretly proud; of course she didn’t think Fuery would be there, seeing as no one had made contact with him in weeks. She meets Breda’s eyes, he gives her a half-shrug and a smile, and that’s all they need to say on the topic.

After briefing them on the Promised Day—it’s as Breda suspected, the enemy’s set the time for them—she tells them about Mustang’s plan. They’ll have the support of his old Ishbalan War squad before the northern and eastern troops come in. Falman will be with Briggs. Breda raises an eyebrow listening to her explanations, but really he’s appreciative. It’s not any crazier than what he pulled with Forveilles. And it’s ambitious, elegant. All their sins will be absolved as if by magic upon victory.

Still risky as hell. Mustang’s excellent on the initiative, to the point that he sometimes forgets about backup. But that’s what a team’s for, to pick up each other’s slack. Isn’t that what Mustang himself told Breda, all those years ago?

*

When he finally joins them, late at night, Mustang’s in his damn Algareb suit, nonchalantly dapper even on the eve of a coup. For a brief moment he grins like a kid seeing them all here, and Breda’s struck by how happy he is to see him, too. Among them all like this, he feels Havoc’s absence more keenly than ever.

“It might be a trap,” Mustang says after his additional briefing.

King Bradley and Selim out of the picture—it certainly does feel too good to be true. Breda shrugs. “Even if it’s a trap, we have to go for it.”

By laying a trap you expose yourself, something he was very much aware of when Forveilles pointed a gun at him. And the enemy is overconfident to an _unbelievable_ degree. Breda honestly thinks they’ve got a chance, and he can see how much comfort Mustang draws from the steady confidence of his subordinates. They believe in him, so he has to lead them. And in exchange they’ll follow.

*

Kidnapping the president’s wife isn’t pleasant, especially since she reminds Breda of his own mother. Mustang’s very gallant helping her out of her car, but she looks so lost and scared. From then on they talk only in terse military terms, so that later on Mrs. Bradley can look back on those memories in a whole new light— _Colonel Mustang wasn’t kidnapping her; he was rescuing her. She misinterpreted the whole situation. They had to take out her bodyguards because they were part of the conspiracy_ , and so on. Better to let her rewrite the story and dialogues by herself so they’re fully believable.

With their moral high ground in tow, they get back into the warehouse district. Mustang, back in uniform, is pulling on his gloves. It’s only just dawn, so there aren’t a lot of people around. For a moment Breda entertains the brief fantasy of simply walking all the way to their objective, unnoticed and unopposed.

Then they suddenly come across a patrol—and Mustang blows up their jeep without warning. The explosion booms inside Breda’s stomach, rattles up his spine. He gets out his gun along with Hawkeye and Fuery. It’s _on._

They’ve all got their radios on so they can listen in on the military chatter, but that doesn’t tell them much except for their own position. One, two, three squads are on their tail. Mustang covers them with giant wings of fire; they still have to shoot back in tight spots where he can’t snap without torching them all. Breda’s pretty sure that in his place Havoc wouldn’t have wasted all his ammo already. He ditches his gun and gets out Forveilles’.

They’re heading for the first warehouse, progressively letting their pursuers catch up. Mustang’s old squad will be waiting in the rafters. If the set-up fails, there are several more spots between them and HQ where the Central soldiers will be getting all but a written invitation to try and shoot Mrs. Bradley. The most devious strategies often rely on the opponent making just the right move at just the right time. It could be their undoing. In other circumstances, it would have been. But by now it’s clear that Mustang’s had the same effect on the enemy that he has on everyone he meets: they’re obsessed with him. On very their first warehouse, with hardly any bait, a Central lieutenant comes right out and says it— _We only want Colonel Mustang. Shoot all the others._

The men in the rafters shoot the Central soldiers instead. Mrs. Bradley looks more distraught than ever. Breda makes sure to drive the point home (“What? You wanted to shoot the president’s wife? Have you gone insane?”) and Mustang delivers the final blow when he helps her up and promises to do everything in his power to protect her.

So that’s their propaganda secured; now to get it on the air.

It’s almost noon. Armstrong and Grumman should be making their move by now. The panicked radio chatter tells them the Briggs troops have indeed attacked—plus their general appears to have taken matters in her own hands in HQ. Breda’s got a healthy respect for that sort of thing. Olivia Armstrong does not play chess; she beats her opponent to death with the board.

Which is why she’s now ahead in the race. Another problem of strategies like Mustang’s: too many targets. They have to break into Radio Capital, they have to get into HQ, they have to destroy the old god that’s sleeping under the city. He wants to have the country and save it too, without a single victim besides. Breda’s irresistibly reminded of Edward Elric in the Xerxes ruins, declaring that he will renounce his goals if they ever endanger the life of even one person again.

It’s a stupidly difficult path. It’s also the only path. Breda’s chosen to follow Mustang, not Armstrong, with his brain as well as with his heart; the time for doubts is long gone. Even now, as it becomes obvious that they’re slowing down, he still believes.

“We’re low on ammo,” Fuery shouts over another fire blast. “Where are Grumman’s troops?”

Hawkeye looks strained, but her voice is very calm as always. “I don’t think they’re coming.”

“What?”

Mustang sends out another incendiary attack arching all around them, the flames twisting like they’re alive, pushing back their pursuers for a minute. He looks grim. “Either Grumman’s had a problem, or—”

Or he’s decided not to come. The old man’s a defensive, cautious player, which is why he always won over Mustang who took so many risks. Breda hopes they’re not going to die here. He would at least like to make it to the radio station; the back of his brain’s been busy churning out propaganda speeches while he shot at people.

And that’s when the ice cream truck barges onto the scene.

Rebecca Catalina is a surprise. Maria Ross is a surprise wrapped in a goddamn mystery. She smiles at Breda, but he’s too stunned to smile back. Mustang looks like someone hit him with a shovel. His squad doesn’t care where the truck’s come from and just cheers wildly at the free weapons; Damiano leaps up by Catalina’s side and they blast a massive smoke bomb at the soldiers about to surround them. The truck bludgeons its way free of the narrow Central streets, carrying them all to safety.

Ross drives like she was born behind a wheel and seems to know Mustang’s plan perfectly; she takes the country road around the city and heads north, towards the radio station. Mustang, wrapped in his dignity like a cat who fell off the dinner table, demands to know who the hell ordered her back from Xing.

She glances up, still smiling. “Do you want to talk to him?”

*

 _It’s_ _Havoc._

Breda’s joy is so sudden and so fierce he actually gets dizzy. He can barely contain it. He’s never been so proud of someone in his entire life. Hawkeye and Fuery just seem dumbstruck, but after his first moment of shock, Mustang also looks like he’s ready to go out and reshape the world. _He_ can exteriorize what he’s feeling, send out waves of flames that’ll match that great rush of energy inside. Havoc’s given him such a gift—not just the possibility of survival and success, but something like absolution for those dire mistakes during the Barry op.

Now they’ve all gotten their second wind and it’s time to get back out there. Their radio special won’t air itself.

Once they’re close enough, the group splits up; Mustang heads for HQ with Hawkeye and lets Breda and Fuery handle Radio Capital. Their half of the squad fans out around the station, keeping the Central soldiers at bay. It’s such a small building they can take turns defending it, allowing for some much-needed rest.

Fuery instantly becomes best friends with the radio operators, almost forgetting about the coup for a minute. Breda had his doubts on whether the staff would help—that’s why Fuery’s presence was invaluable—but when they see Mrs. Bradley, they almost fall over themselves offering to broadcast anything they have to say. Radio folks are strange people, but that’s something Breda already knew.

Mrs. Bradley, shaking and tearful, delivers a wonderful performance. Breda’s follow-up is comparatively tamer; he’s here to connect the dots and spell out the implications. He paints broad strokes over the gaps in the story, hand-stitches the details so it’ll fit like a glove. When he says he needs more voices to give the impression of a big united group, Ross volunteers and starts discoursing about justice and truth and other well-known Amestrisan values. Breda lets her go on for a while, lifting an eyebrow at her more unsubtle word choices, then gets the headset back and keeps narrating what’s happening—reshaping the facts, twisting the reality to their advantage. That’s his own brand of alchemy. Who’s behind the coup? No one knows, but the one thing that’s for damn sure is that Mustang’s against it. The Hero of Ishbal with the First Lady by his side.

*

Even when Bradley comes back, they’re still winning. Even when Mustang doesn’t get to HQ on time, they’re still winning. Even when Armstrong’s subordinates start dying at the front gates, they’re still winning.

And then all of a sudden they lose everything.

*

When Breda opens his eyes he’s lying on the floor of the radio station. He feels like he was turned inside out like a glove. When he looks at his own arm, he’s surprised to find skin and not blood.

Next to him someone gets up, falls back, throws up. He hears moans, sobs. More people stir. Some of them panic. They’re trying to understand what happened, but they can’t. They’re terrified and lost, like children in the woods. There’s something else, too. Static. Static from the microphone dangling off the radio desk. Yes. That’s what Breda was doing. That’s his job, and he’s still on duty. He’s the guy who makes things make sense.

Pushing up to his feet, he has to take a moment immediately after. Everything’s spinning, and he’s cold to the bone. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he slowly sits back at the desk, slowly pulls the headset back on. Brings the mike to his mouth.

“This is Radio Capital,” he says. “Please remain calm.”

It’s like he can feel the country’s confusion and fear directly through his skin. Fuery’s getting up, too, swaying on his feet. Breda mouths at him, _Am I on?_ Fuery checks, taking much too long, eyes blurry; then finally he nods. Breda closes his eyes. His head feels like it’s been filled with lead.

“Please remain calm,” he repeats, and then the rest slowly flows out, word after word. He advises people to stay indoors. He tells them about a massive alchemical experiment. He warns them it’s not over yet. “In fact—” he reads the paper Fuery’s just handed to him. For a moment he can’t get the letters to make sense. “In fact, part of HQ has just been—” He probably shouldn’t say the word _vaporized_. “Part of HQ has just been destroyed in a secondary blast. Evacuate the area and stay tuned for more information.”

Military chatter’s starting up again. He covers up the mike and turns on his comms, closing his eyes, focusing like hell to understand what he’s hearing. No one’s opposing Mustang anymore. They’re all trying to destroy the same thing, finally. The sleeping god, his underground lair burst wide open, exposed to the skies. A god that looks like—Edward Elric?

But the Fullmetal Alchemist is there too, fighting it, and it feels like it’s taking ages, when all Breda wants to do is slip back into unconsciousness the way most people around him did. Fuery’s barely holding on, braced onto the desk. Breda listens through his horrible headache until the comms start shouting staticky encouragement, Edward Elric’s name over and over, crazed hope, hysterical hope, this is the end, this is the finish line—and then victory explodes in Breda’s ears.

He takes off the headset, lets it drop. Next to him Fuery slides down to the ground. Breda was ready to faint again too, would have allowed it, but it doesn’t happen right away. Instead he just sits there and breathes. Breathing feels so profoundly good.

*

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant, wake up.”

When he wakes up for the second time, one or two hours later, he finds himself sitting on the station’s couch. On the air the staff is reading the final official statement from a paper. By the sound of it, they won. How strange.

“Mustang’s calling for us,” Fuery says, leaning over him. “Can you stand?”

Breda groans. “Of course I can stand.”

He does have to lean against the window for a moment. Down below, there’s a car parking by the armored truck. A man hurries out, walks around to open the trunk. He gets out some weird yet familiar object, struggles with it for a moment, and when he unfolds it, Breda’s heart leaps in his chest. Because it’s a wheelchair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heymans breda IS a badass and DOES deserve love
> 
> thanks again to everyone who commented!! reading your thoughts brings me so much joy! stay tuned next for _both breda and havoc's pov_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i lied again, couldn't deprive my boy havoc of his last full chapter. next (and last) chapter might be both their POVs. or not. i'm also finding out about these things as they happen

It’s a tense drive to Central, Havoc chainsmoking with the window rolled down. The radio doesn’t work. Sterkis warned him that when they’d get there he would demand answers. But as the city comes into view, the first thing they notice is the old clock tower. Nothing special about the clock itself; it’s just that it’s usually hidden from view by the massive bulk of HQ.

Seems HQ’s gone.

“The fuck,” Sterkis breathes.

After that, all he wants anymore is to check on his family and friends in town, so Havoc’s off the hook. And Sterkis isn’t a bad guy, really; he parks near the radio station and even spares a minute to extract the wheelchair from the trunk of his car. But then he just leaves, and Havoc, having hoisted himself up into his chair, remains alone in the middle of a great confusion of haggard people and piles of rubble.

He needs to spot Catalina or Ross. At least the weapons truck’s there, so hopefully they’re around. Was it really only last night that Havoc watched it drive away? There are too many people and too much noise and he can’t see a damn thing sitting down like this. He’s about to try and head towards where HQ used to be, despite all the junk in the way, when a man in a black northern uniform walks by and does a double-take. _“Lieutenant Havoc?”_

“Falman!”

Havoc wheels forward and Falman hurries towards him, saying, “It’s really you! Are you all right? What are you doing here?”

“Never mind that—what the hell happened? Was the array activated or not? Did we win?”

“We won! We won,” Falman reassures him. He looks like he can barely believe it himself. “It’s—still very confused, and a lot of Central’s been destroyed, and—and we’ve had losses. But we won.”

Havoc wants to ask _destroyed by what?_ And _what losses?_ but just then he hears, “Boss!” and he looks up to see Maria Ross, coming out of the radio building and beaming at him. Fuery follows, looking banged-up but overall fine; then there’s Denny Brosh, and Charlie Stark, and behind them is Breda. Breda. He’s all right. He’s smiling.

That’s when it truly hits Havoc: they won.

For a moment there’s so much confusion and joy around Havoc that his wheelchair almost topples backwards, everyone trying to talk at the same time, including him. Eventually Breda speaks over them all: “We’ve been called to debrief. Let’s just all go so we can do this properly, all right?” He moves behind the wheelchair. “Havoc, can I push you, do you mind?”

“No—yeah, of course,” Havoc answers, taken off guard. Breda grabs the handles behind him and they all head for the field tents.

The others are talking animatedly around them. Havoc can’t see Breda’s face like this. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’s _right here,_ after so many months of wondering whether he was even alive. He reaches over his shoulder to grab Breda’s wrist, looking up even though he won’t be able to meet his eyes. “Hey. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Breda doesn’t answer but covers Havoc’s hand with his own.

He has to let go a moment later to grip both handles again and negotiate some debris in the way. Closer to the massive crater that used to be HQ, the chaos is getting worse; there are people being actively extracted from the rubble even as others set up more field tents. Amateur alchemists are hastily tracing arrays on the ground with pieces of charcoal or brick, reshaping ruins into trap doors that can be opened to pull people out into the open air. Charlie Stark spots some of his men hanging around, unsure how to help, and detaches himself from the group. In the distance there’s a more powerful alchemical discharge; Havoc recognizes the massive silhouette of Alex Armstrong, ordering around Briggs and Central soldiers alike. Ross and Brosh head over to their commander, saying they’ll meet back later.

“Through here,” Falman says, holding open a flap. Inside the tent is Hawkeye, lying on a stretcher with her shirt cut off and a blood bag hooked up to her arm. Despite her frightening pallor, she’s talking animatedly with Catalina. When they all come in, she lights up. “Havoc!”

“Riza, don’t sit up!” Catalina exclaims, but she does anyway, pressing a hand to the bandage on her neck—did someone _slit her throat?_

“What you did was extraordinary,” she tells him directly. That’s what she always did when she had something to say about his work, good or bad; it’s what Havoc liked best about her as his CO.

He grins. “Just doing my job, sir. More or less.”

“We’re all here, sir,” Falman says. “Where’s Colonel Mustang?”

Hawkeye’s face darkens, and for an icy moment Havoc suddenly expects her to say he’s dead; but then she stands up, with Catalina’s grudging support. “Let’s go find him.”

*

Even though he can’t see them, Mustang clearly perceives their consternation and gets to his feet as if to cut it short. “Thank you all for coming.”

Overhead Breda whispers, “Oh, Roy,” so low only Havoc can hear it.

Mustang reaches out—it’s so damn strange seeing him move so hesitantly—and Hawkeye comes forward so that his hand finds her shoulder. He frowns. “Lieutenant, you should be sitting down.”

“You’re right, colonel,” she answers efficiently. “Let’s all sit down.”

There’s a clunk and creak of fold-up chairs as everyone forms a circle. There aren’t enough seats so Breda keeps standing behind the wheelchair. Havoc can hear the handles creak as he grips them tighter to hold himself up. They’re all exhausted.

In a low voice Mustang asks Hawkeye to name everyone who’s here, whispers with her for a moment—Havoc distinctly hears his own name—then, out loud: “Lieutenant Catalina, stand guard outside. Make sure no one can listen in.”

“Sir,” Catalina says, and leaves at once.

After she’s gone Mustang gives a smile that he can’t, of course, direct at anyone in particular. “So none of you died. I see you’ve all taken my orders to heart for once.”

Fuery’s the first to break. “Sir, what _happened?”_

“We’re going to try and answer that question,” Mustang says. “Bear with me.”

He goes back to the beginning, retracing how various players discovered the nationwide array and the adjoining conspiracy, including the part they didn’t know about, when he disappeared into HQ overnight. He touches on how they came to learn about the Promised Day—it seems the Elrics found out about it first and circulated it down Mustang’s network—then finally explains what it was _about_.

“Devouring God,” Breda repeats flatly.

Havoc’s still stuck over the concept of the Gate. Something that’s inside him but shut off, with God standing guard to bar him from infinite knowledge? This leads to a number of theological questions he has no desire to explore.

“I don’t know that it really was God,” Mustang says slowly. “It felt strange. Almost as if it wasn’t really there. Or like it was only real as far as I was real. Like a mirror image…” He shakes his head. “Regardless. It gave me alchemical knowledge and took a part of me in exchange. That’s what happened to the Elrics.”

“Five sacrifices whose Gate was open. They were points on the array to open the world’s Gate.” In Breda’s unimpressed voice all this sounds almost reasonable. “From which he pulled out God, or whatever it really was.”

Mustang nods. “That’s why he needed the power of an enormous Philosopher’s Stone. To hold it within.”

There’s a silence after that. You need a bit of quiet time to reflect on that kind of information.

Eventually Havoc asks, “So… how are we alive?”

That shakes everyone out of their thoughts, and Mustang embarks on the detailed debrief of the Promised Day—it’s crazy to think that it’s not over, that it’s still technically _today_. He explains what happened in the underground tunnels on the way to the enemy’s lair, the one-eyed puppets he fought with Hawkeye, and the Fullmetal, and Scar.

“I still don’t know why he decided to help us.” He pauses. “But without him, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Hawkeye gives him a sharp glance. Havoc exchanges puzzled looks with Falman and Fuery, and sees them trade looks with Breda over his head. When his eyes land on Mustang again he abruptly knows what this is about.

“I owe you all an apology,” Mustang begins slowly. “I…”

“No,” Havoc says at once. “Don’t think you do, chief. Right, guys?”

Falman, Breda and Fuery back him up immediately. Mustang’s face quivers for a second. When he speaks again it’s with some kind of tired gratitude. “To sum up, then. Hughes’ murderer is dead. But I was persuaded not to kill him myself.”

Hawkeye wouldn’t ever do something as unprofessional as putting her hand on Mustang’s arm, so she doesn’t.

The moment’s gone within a blink; Mustang’s already gathering himself again, picking up the thread of the debrief. After a counter-array was activated, the enemy was crippled by the weight of his own power, and it was only a matter of raining hellfire onto him until his original Stone was out of energy. That’s the fight in which HQ was destroyed, the one Edward Elric ended up winning.

“Speaking of our major,” Mustang says—it’s so strange to hear him refer to the Fullmetal that way—“we should bring him in to fill in the blanks. Fuery, would you go tell him to report at his earliest convenience?”

“Yessir!” Fuery gets up.

“And Falman, see if General Armstrong can spare a moment. We need to coordinate with Briggs ASAP.”

“Sir.”

After they’ve both vacated their seats, Breda lets go of Havoc’s wheelchair and sits down next to him with visible relief. But when he hears the chair creak, Mustang says: “Actually, Breda, I’m going to need a moment alone with Havoc.”

Breda blinks, then starts to get up again.

“What?” Havoc says. “No, hold on. He can stay.”

“You don’t know what I’m about to tell you,” Mustang replies quietly.

“Sir, he can stay.”

Whatever Mustang’s got to say, Havoc would just tell Breda later anyway. Like he always does. Plus Hawkeye isn’t going anywhere either, so it can’t be that private.

“All right.” Mustang actually turns towards Breda. “We’ve located Dr. Marcoh. He’s waiting for us in the next tent over.”

Breda’s eyes widen. Havoc frowns. “Who’s Dr. Marcoh?”

Mustang makes a little gesture to say that since Breda stayed, he should be the one to answer. Breda doesn’t look pleased, but explains how he learned about Marcoh in Xerxes, and left Central again right away to find him after Havoc’s injury.

Havoc looks at him. “You never told me about that.”

“Because it failed,” Breda answers abruptly.

Mustang shifts in his seat. For all that his eyes are staring at nothing, his air of determination is intact. “You can guess where this is going. And Havoc: you don’t have a choice. It’s an order.”

That’s the most transparent lie Havoc’s ever heard from him. There’s no need to say so, though. Quietly he asks, “He fixing your eyes too, chief?”

“Of course. I’m not done.” Mustang gets up, finding Hawkeye’s shoulder again. “But it has to be right away.”

Havoc wavers. He didn’t expect this now. Or ever. He’s afraid, suddenly; it’s too much, too good to be true. It isn’t what he’s supposed to want. All the pamphlets the hospital gave him were about joyful acceptance and finding new meaning in life. And he did fine without his legs, he proved himself. He knows he could live a full existence like this.

But he still wants them back so badly.

“Havoc,” Breda says. “Don’t think too much. Just go.”

No one but Heymans Breda would ever tell him not to think too much. Havoc takes a deep breath, then nods and wheels himself forward. This time there’s no question that Breda won’t follow, and even Hawkeye stands back after steering them in the right direction; Mustang braces on the back of Havoc’s wheelchair instead of her shoulder.

“All right, lieutenant,” he says. “Lead the way.”

Havoc moves out.

*

When he wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed.

For a moment, groggy with sedatives, he wonders if he dreamed all that, the weapons truck, their victory, Dr. Marcoh. What a pitiful fantasy. Here in the real world, he probably got stabbed by Solaris only the day before. He’s got it all to come.

He strains his eyes down and looks at his legs. He still can’t feel them.

 _Move_ , he tells his left foot.

Nothing happens.

_Move!_

It twitches. He does it again. And again, and again. Eventually he has to stop, because his vision’s blurring and he can’t lift his hand to wipe the tears.

*

 _Everything that was originally damaged will be repaired_ , Marcoh told him. He looked horrible, his face puffy and distorted, bruised, missing teeth. His voice was patient, though, and his touch was gentle. _But your brain will need to relearn the connections it had given up on. And you’ve lost muscle mass. So you won’t be able to walk again right away. It’ll take time._

 _“I’ve got time,”_ Havoc said before Marcoh put him under.

This time, as he comes to, he knows where he is and what’s really happened with beautiful clarity. His legs are still numb, buzzing with pins and needles to the point of torture, and it’s the best pain in the world.

Next to him there’s the noise of someone turning a page. He opens his eyes, and there’s Breda, sitting by his side.

Havoc just watches him read for a few minutes. Breda always gets so absorbed. He does look up eventually and finds himself meeting Havoc’s eyes; after a moment of stillness, he leans back in his seat, poker-faced. “How are you feeling?”

“Dazed.”

“Your legs?”

“Fine.” Like it’s nothing at all. “How’s Mustang?”

“Back out there already.” Marcoh explained Havoc’s spine required surgery on top of his Stone-powered intervention as the injury wasn’t alchemical in nature; he needed to see exactly what he was fixing. Healing _Mustang_ was probably instantaneous and drug-free. Typical.

“Typical,” Havoc mutters.

Breda understands, and snorts. Then he says, “I called your family. Let them know you were here, you were fine.”

“Thanks.” He did leave a note on the counter before he left, but his mother was probably still worried sick.

“And I told them—well. That a new treatment had become available. That you might need to stick around for a while. But if you want to do PT at the Eastern Hospital, that can be arranged, too.”

Havoc smiles at him. “Central’s good.”

Breda carefully closes his book.

“If you stay here, it’ll probably be as an outpatient. They need every bed they can spare for the casualties of the blast. People are still being dug out of the rubble.”

“Oh. I mean, I’ll happily give up my spot, but I don’t have an apartment here anymore.”

Breda waves that away; apparently finding a place isn’t the issue. “Doctors said you’d need someone living with you, at least for the first couple of weeks. I said I could do that.” There’s the briefest pause. “If you don’t mind.”

It would be lying to say Havoc wasn’t waiting for that kind of crack to appear. But now he wishes it hadn’t. Before the team’s disbanding, Breda would have simply carted Havoc off to their new apartments without asking for his opinion. Havoc would have joked around, _Oh,_ now _you’re fine with living together, I see how it is, it’s only a good idea when it’s your idea_.

“Don’t mind at all,” he says softly.

Breda exhales, then gets up. “Well, then. I better start looking right away.”

This time, Havoc doesn’t call him back as he leaves. It’s like he told Marcoh: he’s got time.

*

Fifty-six hours post-Promised Day, most of the rubble’s been cleared and Edward Elric’s finally found a moment to debrief in-between sleeping for twelve hours straight, eating his weight in carbs and flitting around his brother like an overexcited moth around its first light bulb. Not everyone’s here; Fuery’s out on the field, helping fix up the electrical grid, and for all that Falman’s still loyal to Mustang, it’s looking increasingly likely he’ll remain in Armstrong’s division.

Since it’s just more practical that way, the rest of them hold the meeting in Alphonse’s hospital room. Next to his emaciated figure, Havoc feels like the very picture of health.

The Elrics’ story fills in many blanks indeed, but raises even more theological questions, to which Havoc’s answer is still a firm no thank you. Mustang turns an interesting shade of custard when Edward mentions he gave what was left of Selim back to Mrs. Bradley. Too late to fix it now; Mrs. Bradley is a pillar of Mustang’s new world order, so if she wants to raise a god-eater there’s nothing to do but pass her the baby food. At least all the others are dead and gone, including Van Hohenheim, an information Edward delivers with more irritation than sadness.

Alphonse is obviously struggling to stay awake by that point, so Mustang gets up. “Let’s adjourn to Havoc’s room.”

“Hey, lieutenant,” Edward says as they file out. “Are you staying in Central for your PT again?”

Havoc does a three-point turn to face him. “Yeah, why?”

“So—they’re good here? They do good work?”

He’s asking because of his brother, Havoc realizes. “Yeah, they’re real good.”

“Okay. Great. And do you know if…”

Without opening his eyes Alphonse says, “Stop _bothering_ him.”

Havoc smiles and leaves them to it. By the time he gets to his room, Mustang’s already started expounding on his goals for the immediate future. He needs to organize Bradley’s funeral; he needs to announce that Grumman will be taking his place; and he needs to rehabilitate Briggs in the public opinion. That last one’s obviously trickier.

“We can blame the northern troops’ actions on Major General Gärtner. He’s been head of Briggs HQ long enough for it to sound believable. But the second we start pointing fingers, the rest of the brass outside Central will realize we’re coming after them next.”

Hawkeye nods. “They might band together…”

“Or sell each other out,” says Breda.

Mustang tilts his head to acknowledge both their points. It’s hard to believe he was blind and resigned to retire just a few days ago. “Obviously they can’t act in the open right now, so the problem’s not immediate. But we need to monitor them closely.”

“Do we have names?” Hawkeye asks.

“Oh, Armstrong gave me a list. She compiled it with Falman’s help, so I trust that it’s accurate.” Mustang starts reading them out. Unsurprisingly, it’s almost all officers stationed on the nationwide circle.

When he gets to the Fs, Breda interrupts him. “You can cross out that last one, sir.”

They all look at him. “Forveilles?” Mustang repeats.

Breda’s more impassive than ever. “I’m afraid he’s dead, sir.”

“I see,” Mustang says. He meets Breda’s eyes for a moment, then he just goes back to his list.

*

“It’s funny,” Havoc says that night.

Breda’s pushing him down main street. He’s found them an apartment right on time; Havoc got discharged in the afternoon and starts PT again tomorrow.

“What is?”

“We kinda switched places, didn’t we.” Havoc’s enjoying his cigarette. “You worked field and I worked intel.”

“I always said you’d be good at it.”

“Sounds like you did okay for yourself, too.”

Breda huffs. Havoc gives him a moment then says, “Hey.”

He still can’t see his face like this, but he can feel him tense.

“Tell me what happened in Pendleton?”

He’s pretty sure Breda relaxes by a fraction when he hears that, though he still doesn’t sound happy when he answers. “If you tell me how you got that truck into Central.”

“Deal.”

Just as they finish up their own private debrief, Breda stops in front of a door with a brass knocker, but it’s not before he gets out a set of keys that Havoc realizes this is their new place. Once he wheels himself inside he understands why it didn’t ping his radar. Of course, it’s very modest—neither of them has much money, since Havoc’s sunk all his savings into reactivating the Eastern Liberation Front network and Breda lost more than he earned in the west. But usually Breda picks the first place he finds, and that’s clearly not what happened this time. There are big windows and a nice wallpaper, hardwood floors with hardly any water stains.

“Are you hungry?” Breda asks, already starting up the stove like it’s just another evening in his crappy East City apartment.

It’s not that he’s pretending nothing happened. The opposite, really. Breda’s acknowledging that he’s shown his hand. But he’s also making it clear that if Havoc doesn’t want to talk about it, they won’t. They can go on like nothing’s changed.

*

In the morning Havoc’s irrationally stressed out, more than he ever was on his first round of PT. But once they get to the hospital, he picks up his routine like he never left; electrotherapy, stretches and exercises. Of course, being able to actually _move_ his legs makes it all enormously easier, even if the pain leaves him drenched in sweat at the end of the day.

Alphonse is there too, doing only very gentle exercises—squeezing a foam ball in his hand, blowing a feather across a table—but they seem to leave him more exhausted than Havoc’s intense physical routines. One time as they take a break together, Havoc confesses he can’t wait for the day he can run again; in return Alphonse tells him he’s looking forward to doing away with the breathing machine at night.

Even though it’s nice to have a wheelchair buddy, the contrast with Alphonse means Havoc doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from their steady stream of visitors, especially not from—

“Can you _still_ not walk?” Edward asks him with what looks like genuine surprise. “It’s been almost a year since you got injured.”

“It’s been six months,” Havoc protests.

“That’s what I said. Didn’t Marcoh heal you with a Stone? When that old creepy Father guy fixed my arm and my ribs I was good as new right away.”

“I need to rebuild muscle mass—”

“Yeah, so do I.” Edward waves the gripper he’s holding in his right hand, flexes it a few times. “Doesn’t take that long.”

“My nervous system is _rerouting itself.”_

“Been there when I got automail. Didn’t take that long either.”

“I’ll kill you,” Havoc suggests.

Edward cackles. “Not from that wheelchair, you won’t.”

Alphonse, who up until then was busy getting his breathing under control after a series of stretches, lights up as Maria Ross walks in along with Denny Brosh. She’s bringing them flowers, smiling. When he sees her Havoc calls out, “Ross! Take that kid out, it’s an order!”

She blinks, then gives Brosh the flowers to hold. “That’s Edward Elric. I’m underqualified, boss.”

Edward grins at her. “Hey, you did slap me once. You could try your luck again.”

“Just get him! He can’t do alchemy anymore!”

“Can too,” Edward points out. “Just not clapping.”

Ross gives Havoc a serious look. “Boss, I think we all know there’s only one way to sort this out.”

Five minutes later, they’re rumbling down the hospital hallway in a furious wheelchair race, Edward pushing Alphonse and Ross pushing Havoc; Ross isn’t as fast as Edward, but Alphonse can’t work the wheels like Havoc can, so they’re neck and neck until they almost knock down a nurse who shouts them back into the PT room, so loudly she probably can’t even hear their apologies. Alphonse is laughing uncontrollably, so it’s definitely a win.

*

The apartment really is nice. Spring’s well on its way now, so Havoc’s enjoying the breeze at the window, reading the _Post_. That way he can smoke, too. Come winter he’ll have to find another solution. But of course, they probably won’t be living together anymore by then.

When someone knocks, he looks up from the page and realizes it’s almost dark. He turns on the light as he makes his way across his living room to the front door. Pulling it open while in a wheelchair is tricky, but he’s got practice now.

“Colonel.” Mustang’s wearing a suit, which means this isn’t official business. “Come on in.”

“Thank you. I won’t be long.” Mustang wipes his feet as he comes into the apartment. “I assume Breda’s not here.”

He would know; he’s been working Breda so hard Havoc wouldn’t see him at all if they didn’t live together. When he comes home, he barely has the energy to take care of the things Havoc can’t do—cleaning up, mostly—before he collapses into bed. Of course there’s no shortage of missions for an intelligence officer three weeks post-PD. Havoc’s hoping things will plateau after Grumman’s investiture ceremony in two days.

“He’s not. Did you want to see him?”

“I wanted to see you.” Mustang sits down in an armchair. “I met with Mr. Sterkis earlier today. He’s coming around to our way of thinking.”

“Figured he would.” Sterkis started out hating Mustang, so really he was predisposed to like him.

“But now I’ve got a question for you.” Mustang’s got that intense look of his. “Are you considering getting back into the army?”

Havoc shrugs. “Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether that’s what you need from me.” He gets out a new cigarette. “I thought maybe you’d find it more useful for me to keep leading the Front.”

Mustang stares at him. Then he says, cautious, “Retirement is also an option. I don’t want you to think I just expect…”

“Tried that and you wouldn’t let me,” Havoc cuts him off. “Got a light?”

Absently, Mustang flicks a spark towards him. If people knew he doesn’t even need arrays on his gloves anymore, he probably would have been assassinated already.

Havoc just smokes slowly, waiting him out. After a while Mustang says, “I’ll get Internal Affairs to sort out your readmission papers. We’ll be ready whenever you are.”

He grins. “There you go.”

Mustang gets up. “It’ll be good to have you back, Lieutenant Colonel Havoc.”

It’s Havoc’s turn to stare. Mustang smiles at him before he leaves. He always has to have the last word.

*

The next day Havoc finally starts the parallel bars. As soon as he tries it, he can’t remember why he was so eager to get to that point. He’s spent literal weeks working out in preparation for this, but it feels like his legs are filled with water, sloshing out under him. His full weight is on his arms, almost like he’s not touching the ground at all, just hoisting himself up and inching onwards.

Still, he’s been waiting for this, so he walks the full length of the bars over and over again, sweat dripping down his back. The sun’s beginning to set; a golden glow’s coming through the windows. Ross came by earlier to say hi, but now he’s alone in the PT room. The door opens again when he’s mid-bars and he looks up, expecting a nurse. It’s Breda.

“Hey,” Havoc says breathlessly. “What are you—doing here? I thought you were—working late—tomorrow’s the—”

“Didn’t want to miss your first day back upright. Glad I got here in time.” He looks tired, but gives him a smile. “Feels nice to see you walking again.”

“Feels nice to—be walking again.”

“Really?”

“No—it fucking hurts,” Havoc gasps out. He reaches the end of the bars and lets himself fall into his wheelchair.

Breda pulls up a chair next to him. “Don’t push yourself. It’s late.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” He’s breathing hard. “Maybe I’ll stop here.” He gets out the cigarette he was saving as a reward, pats both his pockets, then sighs. “Forgot my lighter again…”

Breda wordlessly gives him a light, a familiar gesture. Havoc leans forward, then stops, looking at the little flame.

He sits back, studying Breda’s face. Then he asks, “How long have you been carrying this lighter?”

Breda stills.

When he huffs, there’s not much joy in his smile. “So you want to talk about it right now.”

“I was waiting for a less busy time, but I don’t think it’s coming anytime soon.”

“No. You’re probably right.” He considers the lighter, then puts it away. “Since the academy.”

Havoc just looks at him.

“I want to make something clear,” Breda goes on. “I’ve always been proud to call you my friend. And I…”

For a moment it feels like he might say just about anything next. Then he sighs. “I’m just glad you don’t mind.”

The orange sunset’s pouring through the windows now, stretching across the wide empty room.

Havoc suddenly gets up from his chair, grabbing the bars. “One last time.”

Breda blinks but lets him. Havoc takes one step, then another, bracing his weight on his arms. At the end of the bars he can see his future. Healing and getting back into the army. Finding another girlfriend, probably. He’s liked them all very much but never had a hard time letting go, finding another one. They were part of the movement of his life, coming and going. The academy, the military, the coup; East City, Central, Angren. Everything always in flux. Nothing steady about the past nine years. Except for Breda.

Now their time in Mustang’s squad is over. He’ll have his own squad, his own lieutenants. They’ll always be bound by what they went through, but in their day-to-day lives they’ll lose sight of each other. Already Falman’s decided to stay with Briggs. Fuery’s returning to Fotset. Mustang’s going back to East City HQ. At the end of the bars, there’s the end of an era.

So Havoc stops.

His arms tremble with the strain of holding himself upright. Breda’s frowning up at him. “Are you all right?” When Havoc doesn’t answer, he gets up, comes close. “Havoc. What’s wrong?”

Havoc lets go of the right bar, feels his legs lock up to support his weight; because his whole body’s so tense he moves jerkily, grabs Breda at the collar like he’s about to punch him, and leans in thinking _he’ll think I taste like an ashtray—_

Breda only has time to draw in a surprised breath.

He was willing to pretend it didn’t happen. He actually thought Havoc would do that to him: _pretend it didn’t happen_. That thing he just said. _I’m just glad you don’t mind._ Don’t _mind?_ Havoc’s anger dissolves in the sunset that’s burning through his eyelids. He shouldn’t have been so slow to get here. But then, he’s always been a bit slow.

And then abruptly he pulls back, his right hand clanging back around the bar. “Fuck—sorry—I’m going to fall down—”

“What?” Breda says, and then “oh, shit, hold on—” but Havoc says, “No, it’s okay, it’s too late, let me just…” and lowers himself to the floor, sitting down on the linoleum. Breda sits down with him. Havoc smiles, breathless again. For a moment it’s all they can do to look at each other.

Then, just as it seems like one of them might be gearing up to say something, a door opens in the background. When the nurse sees them there, she hurries over with a long-suffering look. People overdoing it in the parallel bars must be a regular occurrence. With Breda’s help, she pulls Havoc back up and into his chair, then tells them it’s time for outpatients to leave.

*

They talk about something else completely on the way home.

First Breda asks Havoc what he wants for dinner. Then Havoc talks about the latest piece about Mustang he’s read in the _Post_. By the time they get to the apartment, they’ve moved on to discussing Grumman’s investiture the next day; Havoc’s still pissed that he flaked out on them on Promised Day, but Breda’s of the opinion that his new position’s all the more solid for it.

“Okay, but won’t he make more problems now?” Havoc yells through the bathroom door as he undresses for his shower. Getting onto the showering stool is much less difficult now that he’s not _actually_ paralyzed anymore. “Guy’s a snake. Hawkeye’s his granddaughter, and he was going to let her die.”

Breda, from the kitchen, raises his voice over the noise of the frying pan, “No, he’s just a coward. Won’t act unless he feels completely safe. Now that there are no risks anymore, he’ll be happy to support Mustang all the way.”

When they’re done eating, Breda does the dishes and Havoc dries, which is all he can do to help. Not for much longer, though. He’s getting better. Technically he walked again for the first time a few hours ago. Funny how he thought it would be the most important thing that happened that day.

As always, he finds himself craving a cigarette after dinner. “Okay if I open a window?”

Breda stifles a yawn, scrubbing away at the last pan. “Sure.”

“You know, I could stop smoking. If you want.”

Breda puts the pan into the dishrack. “You don’t have to stop smoking.”

“Don’t you mind the taste?”

“Havoc—” He stops, then huffs. When he turns around, his usual impatient expression is back. “Listen. Don’t feel like you owe me anything. Don’t worry about making me unhappy. You’ve never made me unhappy.”

Havoc stares at him.

“Come on,” Breda says, defiant. “I’m not exactly your type.”

There’s a lot of things Havoc could say here, assumptions to challenge and arguments to make, but really he’d rather give that kind of pointless debate a pass, along with theological questions such as _But if the Gate stands inside of my soul, what right does God have to guard it from me?_ He knows how Breda gets caught up in all the potential implications of a straightforward move.

So he shrugs. “Okay, so I’ll cut back to half a pack a day, for a start.”

Breda huffs again, like Havoc’s being unreasonable. He reaches for the sponge on the edge of the sink, but Havoc’s closer and grabs it first.

“I’ll finish up here. You’re getting up early.”

Breda doesn’t fight him and leaves the room without a word, already taking off his suspenders. Havoc wipes the table slowly—he has to wheel himself around it to get to every corner, and he can’t quite reach the middle—smoking his cigarette, letting the ash drop on the oilcloth and wiping that off, too. After that he closes the window, turns off the lights, and goes to his room to hoist himself into bed.

His alarm clock rings at five. He was already half-awake anyway, his body telling him the time. He gets back into his chair, pulls on a sweater and wheels out of his room.

The days are longer now, and he can see just fine by the grey light before dawn. He makes coffee, then decides he wants to have it standing. He _can_ stand with minimal support, now. He did it when he kissed Breda. So he takes a deep breath, gets up and leans back against the counter, bracing himself upright. Yeah, that’ll work.

Fifteen minutes later, Breda comes out of his room. He’s already in his uniform and coat, trying not to make too much noise. As he goes for the door, Havoc calls, “Hey.”

Breda stops.

“Want some coffee?”

It’s a second before Breda turns around. There’s some sort of tired helplessness on his face. “I—don’t have time, Havoc. The investiture…”

“I know.” Havoc waves a tin flask at him. “You can take it with you.”

Breda comes close, staring at the thermos.

He takes it, then he puts it away and grabs Havoc’s sweater just as Havoc leans down.

This time it’s deliberate on both their parts. Breda’s not as restrained as he was before, pulling at him like something’s beginning to give, and Havoc wants to crack it all the way open, wants to drink what’s inside. For a moment there it heaves into urgency, and it feels like they might just forget themselves entirely; that’s when they part, because duty stupidly comes first.

Breda, out of breath, searches his expression right away—it will take him a long time to be sure, probably. But when he finds Havoc grinning in delight, he softly laughs, first with what looks like disbelief, then just with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [wrestles breda into happiness] he's broken free again! but what's this? it's jean havoc with a steel chair!
> 
> your comments, i love them, they sustain me


	9. Chapter 9

For months Breda’s last image of Havoc was a pale figure stuck in a white bed inside a white room.

And then all of a sudden Havoc was _here_ , slightly broader around the shoulders under his thick cable-knit sweater, sitting upright and wheeling himself wherever he damn well pleased, smiling and talking and ordering his people around, with his goatee and his cigarettes and his country accent. He’d got himself out of that washed-out memory in a big way. He was back.

And just that would have been enough. Breda tried his best to make that clear. What he should have remembered is that Havoc’s always managed to surprise him.

*

When they meet on the steps of HQ Mustang asks, “Is that coffee?”

Breda takes a gulp and nods. He also bought a hot cake on the way—it’s not worth eastern pastries, but still very appreciated on a cold spring morning. Following Mustang into the building doesn’t make either of them any warmer, since the roof is gone. Dust rises up twirling after the sweep of their coats. Shafts of sunlight fall through the half-crumbled façade. The coffee’s very good. Havoc kissed him twice. Breda’s having a hard time concentrating.

Less than a month post-PD, most of Central’s been rebuilt, courtesy of Alex Armstrong, Edward Elric and Izumi Curtis, along with a small crowd of civilian alchemists. But HQ can’t be fixed because there are no ruins to reassemble, just an oblong crater and fine dust long gone with the wind. Part of the east wing’s still standing; otherwise all that’s left is the main courtyard. That’s where Grumman’s decided to have his inaugural speech, surrounded with very aesthetic piles of rubble to remind people of the terrible fate he’s saved them from.

“I know it’s been hard work,” Mustang says, perhaps thinking Breda’s coffee thermos means he’s about to keel over from exhaustion. “But things are getting more organized. Soon you’ll have more people to help.”

By which he means more people under his command. Most of Breda’s work for the past month amounted to getting rid of the top brass before they could mount a counterattack, which was easy enough—Bradley himself gave him the blueprints for stripping high-ranking officers of their power without making waves. General Klemin and General Edison were already named as scapegoats and will be executed for offences that aren’t actually as damning as their true crimes; but otherwise Breda’s been mostly isolating and demoting people, sometimes cutting deals, making overall very few arrests. Still, as a consequence, there’s now a lot of room at the top, and they’re headed for a mass promotion ceremony in another month. Mustang will be the youngest general in the history of Amestris.

Hawkeye meets them in the courtyard, directing a small troop of military police carrying dozens of chairs and a formal alchemical script on a canvas sheet. As they set up, Fuery makes his appearance, chipper and efficient as always, leading a group of his own to set up speakers around the courtyard and a direct connection to Radio Capital. Wherever he goes, an electric cable follows, ultimately leading to the podium that’s just risen from the ground, crackling out of the alchemical sheet.

Everyone takes a short lunch break once the set-up and tests are done, then it’s showtime. Even though they’re technically of equal rank, Breda’s nabbed Catalina and Ross as his own makeshift lieutenants, like Havoc before him; they report to him as the guests start trickling in, saying everything’s under control and the courtyard’s secure. He’s lucky he’s got competent people to help him because he’s still not focusing as he should. As Grumman steps up to the podium and begins the speech that’ll go down in history, all Breda can think of is how much better he would have liked to stay home today.

The transfer of power is a very slow, ceremonial process to begin with, and their exceptional circumstances encumber it even more. General Armstrong is present, of course, and the Briggs and Central troops deliver a joint parade to hammer in that they’re all friends here. The former President’s aides, Hawkeye and Storch—the latter easily convinced to lie in exchange for his career and his life—step up to read a long and powerfully boring eulogy in the memory of King Bradley and his son Selim. Mrs. Bradley stands behind them, probably thinking of the thing she calls her child. What an interesting woman she turned out to be.

As the afternoon ends, Mustang goes up last and delivers a speech of his own. Breda can’t help but notice that the crowd goes quieter when he starts talking; he’s got all of Amestris under his spell in a big way. What he says is as close to the truth as anything he’ll ever declare in public, announcing the government’s decision to reopen the eastern lands to the Ishbal people, as it’s now clear that the original riots were incited by the top brass “in a loathsome betrayal of Bradley’s true ideals”. It’s so uncanny for the Hero of Ishbal himself to make such a statement that it can only be believed. Breda himself could almost forget what’s real and what’s not; all the dark, fantastical elements he’s witnessed seem to pale in the face of the very real tangle of military and diplomatic issues lying ahead.

When it’s all over and the applause has changed into a rumble of voices and chairs being pushed back, Mustang approaches Breda. “Good work, lieutenant. Now take three weeks off, get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Breda raises an eyebrow. Did he look that tired in the morning? “That’s very generous, sir.”

“Well,” Mustang says. “I need you out of HQ between now and the promotion ceremony.”

That makes more sense. Breda knows Mustang intends to give him Forveilles’ official job, following Dietrich’s arrest and confession. Going from Second Lieutenant to Lieutenant Colonel, the lowest authorized rank for Director of the CBI, is a leap that’ll go down easier if people remember Breda as the man who was there to pick up the slack during a time of crisis; if his presence in HQ were uninterrupted, it would seem like his promotion—and Forveilles’ murder—were intended all along.

But the roundabout way Mustang’s brought up the subject is very telling. The old question’s back at the edge of their conversation. _Why did you get into the army?_ Breda joined up for a specific purpose, and Mustang, who burned the evidence, knows it well. Some might say that purpose was reached with the dismantling of Bradley’s regime and the rehabilitation of Ishbal.

“Havoc mentioned you visited the night before,” Breda says.

Mustang frowns, obviously wondering how this might influence his decision. “Yes. It was time. The way things are going, he should be recovered enough by next month.”

Which means Havoc will be made Chief Commissioner of Police: Breda’s field counterpart, the way they’ve always functioned. The both of them staying in the capital makes things easier—and harder. Only the day before Breda would have wrapped up the discussion without wasting anymore of Mustang’s time, because his choice’s already made. Today he stays silent. Delaying a major professional decision for personal reasons isn’t like him, but to be fair, that’s mostly because he never had much of a personal life. At least he still has a bit of time before he has to make the call.

“I’ll see you next month, then,” he says.

Mustang’s expression changes minutely when he realizes Breda won’t give him a definite answer now. He nods and steps back. “Take good care of yourself, lieutenant.”

“You too, sir.”

Mustang goes back to Hawkeye, waiting for him next to the podium. She’ll be his aide again back in East City, and wherever they go next. The both of them obviously made _their_ decision a long time ago. Still, Breda can’t help but wonder what they would do if they had a three weeks window.

*

When he comes home, Breda finds Havoc perched on a barstool that he pushed near the stove, cooking dinner. He’s already showered and changed after his PT. He looks up and smiles. “Hey. I followed along on Radio Capital. Sounds like it went okay.”

Crutches are leaning against the wheelchair parked behind him. Taking off his coat, Breda nods at them. “These are new.”

“Yeah, I’m transitioning out of the chair.”

“So soon? You only started the parallel bars yesterday.”

“Docs say my nervous system’s firing on all cylinders now, so all that’s left to do is build up muscle. Means the longer I’m on my feet, the better.” He reaches out to Breda without looking. “C’mere.”

Breda comes close like this is a normal thing they do every day. When Havoc pulls him into a kiss he almost wants to stop him, grab him by the shoulders and say _Havoc, look at me, just take a good look at me_ , as if Havoc could have somehow missed the fact that Breda’s not a slim young woman. _So what?_ says an insidious voice inside Breda. _It’s just three weeks. He can pretend for that long, just to be nice. No skin off his nose in the end._

But Havoc wouldn’t do that to him. He wouldn’t.

When they part Havoc gives him that grin again, like they’re getting away with something. Breda’s thoughts ricochet down another path entirely. _Would_ Havoc be willing to keep going even after he’s joined up again? Risking both their careers, and by extension Mustang’s credibility—would either of them really do such a thing?

He kisses Havoc again. Havoc lets go of the pan and gets half-off his stool to lean into it. Breda’s always liked how tall he was, but already he can feel him tremble with the effort of holding himself up. They’ll have to stop in a moment anyway, if they don’t want the food to burn.

Then Havoc reaches out and cuts off the stove.

*

Breda’s thirty-four years old. This is far from being his first time. Yet he’s unprepared for how intense every little thing feels; when Havoc tentatively untucks his shirt he nearly stops breathing.

“All right?” Havoc asks quietly. “If you’re too tired, that’s fine. We can just have dinner.”

Breda just shakes his head and pushes his hands underneath Havoc’s sweater. On the right side he can feel the gnarled scar tissue from the deep burn Mustang’s left behind. Despite his best efforts, he’s familiar with Havoc’s body after years of communal showers and changing rooms. But touching him makes him shake.

Havoc slips off his suspenders, catches his mouth in another kiss while he gets to work on his shirt buttons, and Breda’s body reacts in a mindlessly intense way he hadn’t experienced since his teens. His first irrational impulse is to hope Havoc won’t notice, as if it might put him off, make him change his mind.

So instead he presses his hand between Havoc’s legs. No point hiding from what this is about.

“Mm.” There’s a smile in Havoc’s voice. “Now, that hadn’t happened to me in a while.”

Breda can feel what he means. He closes his eyes; he had almost forgotten that Havoc had lost all sensation under the waist for six months. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Feelin’ just fine.” There’s a roughness in his voice that wasn’t there before.

Breda pulls away. He has to. It’s too much. In a businesslike voice he points out that Havoc can’t stay perched on his bar stool for much longer, so they step back and Havoc grabs his crutches, follows him to the closest of their two beds. Once they’re sitting down they strip without making a big deal out of it. Maybe Havoc would have preferred to take it slow, but Breda can’t let himself think about what’s happening or he’ll lose his mind completely.

He takes the lead, making it clear how they’re going to play this, lying back when he’s ready and beckoning him on top, perhaps in an effort to offer Havoc something close to what he’d usually expect. Stupidly afraid again that he might reconsider otherwise. There’s the usual part full of elbows and adjustments, and then they’re more or less good to go—but that’s when their eyes meet, and all of Breda’s efforts to keep his emotions at arms’ length fail as the both of them apparently realize at the same time that they’re actually doing this, now, with each other.

Breda’s taken aback by how vulnerable this is going to make him feel; how intimate this was always supposed to be. Arched above him, Havoc’s frozen, too, breathing shallow. Shaking. They’re both shaking again. In a way it’s almost easier to get on with it, finally, just start moving, Breda’s fingers digging into Havoc’s back, Havoc burying his face into his neck.

After that it’s all just pure, uncomplicated pleasure. Havoc has the unfair advantage of being Havoc.

*

Havoc catches his breath on top of Breda for what feels like a long time. The kaleidoscopic colors in his mind are slow to fade. Breda’s grip on his shoulders relaxes slowly as his own breathing returns to normal.

When Havoc moves off him to sit up—his lower body protesting that he definitely overdid it this time—Breda doesn’t move for a moment, then rolls to his side and gets out of bed. He doesn’t look at Havoc. “Do you mind if I shower first?”

“Uh—no, sure. Go ahead.” Havoc watches him leave.

Five minutes later, Breda comes back, in the loose pants and untucked shirt he wears to bed. He stops at the window, looking outside at nothing in particular.

After a minute Havoc calls, “Breda. Hey.”

Breda comes back to sit next to him. Havoc can’t figure out what’s wrong. “Did I…” He doesn’t think so, but—“Did I hurt you?”

That startles Breda into looking at him. “No. Havoc, of course not.” He’s pale, though. After another moment he says, “Look. What happens when you join up again?”

Ah. Havoc rubs the back of his neck. He’s been considering the logistics for some time, but seeing as he’s more or less jumped Breda only the day before, he was going to give it at least a few days. “Sure you want to talk about it right now?”

Breda nods, wordlessly.

“All right, so I figure we’d better do it soon. Maybe on your next day off. Get it out of the way, you know?” Faced with a blank look, Havoc tries, “It’s just a formality anyway. And I reckon that’s the only window we’ll get.”

Nope. Breda seems even more confused. “What are you talking about?”

Havoc raises his eyebrows. “Getting married?”

Civilians and military personnel can marry, of course; and right now he’s a civilian. The army can’t demand they divorce after he joins back. Naturally there are regulations against quitting just long enough to get hitched, but he was discharged for reasons that have demonstrably nothing to do with Breda. Their relationship will probably be tightly monitored at work and there’s certainly a clause somewhere saying they can’t be on the same squad, or directly commanding one another. But otherwise it’s their only solution to the fraternization problem.

That or break up. Havoc reaches into his discarded pants and gets out his pack. “Come on. I know this feels sudden and all, but give me some credit.”

“I thought…”

“Yeah,” he says. “I can guess what you thought. S’okay.” He taps out a cigarette.

Breda’s silent for a long moment, looking at him. He’s good at hiding his emotions, but Havoc’s getting better at reading them.

Then Breda says, sounding much more like himself: “We’re going to keep calling each other by our last names, aren’t we.”

“Ha! Can you imagine if we didn’t?” Havoc flicks his lighter. “You don’t like your first name anyway.”

Breda’s beginning to smile. “Thought you said you were going to quit.”

“I’m doing it. Just not cold turkey.” Havoc blows out smoke, then taps off the ashes and smiles back. “So when’s your next day off?”

Breda cups his face and kisses him. By the time they come up for air, Havoc’s cigarette has almost completely burned itself up, so he just crushes it on the metal side of the bed so he’ll have both hands free.

He really hasn’t got any strength left in his legs, but as it turns out that doesn’t matter much.

*

“Look at you _go!”_ Edward shouts from across the room, pushing open the door with the QUIET PLEASE sign. Alphonse Elric has improved massively in just under a month, thanks mostly to the electrical apparatus stimulating his muscles even while he sleeps, and today he’s starting on the parallel bars, too. “You’re a fucking champion! How about you, lieutenant, taking a break?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah,” Havoc answers placidly from his wheelchair.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

“Lollipop.” He moves it to the side of his mouth. “Hey, boss—you’re both going back east soon, aren’t you?”

“Yep! In two weeks. About fuckin’ time, too.” No one can say _Edward’s_ conflicted about leaving the army.

“Mind making a short stop in Angren? Three, four hours, tops.”

Edward, who up until then was staring ecstatically at his brother, finally turns towards him. They’re both from the same ass-end of Amestris so he knows that Angren, the last stop before Resembool, is Havoc’s hometown. “Sure, I guess. What’s this about?”

“Me and Breda are getting married and we need two witnesses who aren’t our relatives.”

Havoc savors the frozen look on Ed’s face, and also the taste of his cranberry lollipop. He honestly expected worse, but they’re pretty decent.

That night Breda laughs when Havoc tells him. “You’re ruthless.”

“Not my fault this stuff freaks him out,” Havoc grins. “Anyway. We’ve got our witnesses.”

Getting married in Angren was the easiest solution. First, Havoc’s mom would have probably killed him if he tied the knot away from home on top of everything he’s put her through in the past year. Second, a Central wedding would mean having members of the military as witnesses, which might not fly later when people inevitably start digging into their relationship. Mustang needs to be able to declare that what his subordinates do on their private time is their own business.

Besides, two more weeks for Havoc to build up strength won’t go amiss, and neither of them minds waiting; it really is just an administrative formality, a way to ensure relative peace at least on that front. But also they’ve known each other for ten years, so it doesn’t even feel all that rushed. Plus Breda’s got no family left and Havoc’s been aching to pull him into the extended Angren clan. So it all works out.

*

Hawkeye picks up on the second ring. _“Colonel Mustang’s office.”_

“How are you doing, lieutenant?”

 _“Oh, Breda. Hello.”_ Hawkeye pauses in a way that clearly lets Breda know Mustang sat up in the background. _“Shall I put on the colonel?”_

Breda’s going to miss having her as his CO. “Please, sir. Thank you.”

Moments later Mustang’s voice comes on the line. _“How’s your holiday going?”_

“I’m going east for a little while.”

_“A little while?”_

“I’ll be back for the promotion ceremony next week.”

Mustang’s relief is faint but palpable. _“Good.”_

He genuinely thought Breda might leave the army. _Come on, Roy,_ Breda wants to say. _All that was just groundwork._ But then again, Breda also believed for a moment that Havoc would kiss him without a long-term plan. Maybe they both need to look up from the chess board every once in a while.

 _“While I have you here,”_ Mustang says. _“Any transfers you’d like to request for your squad?”_

“Fuery. But I talked it over with him already and we agreed that it would be best to let him return to Fotset for a few months first.” Falman would have been nice, too, but he’s just more useful to everyone in Briggs. Plus Sciezka’s already here, so there’s no need to get greedy. “For right now…”

_“Yes?”_

Breda was toying with the thought. “Sergeant Lily Daelsen from Pendleton HQ.”

There’s a scratch of pen on paper. _“She’ll be here when you get back. Enjoy the rest of your break, colonel.”_

“See you soon, general.” He hangs up and makes his way back to Havoc and the Elrics waiting on the platform, just as the Eastern Express comes into the station.

*

Breda expected some agitation, but Havoc’s relatives are too busy celebrating his miraculous recovery and yelling at him for disappearing on Promised Day to be anything more than politely surprised at his marrying a fat red-headed guy—he must have warned them in advance anyway, because no one looked at Breda and exclaimed the things he expected to hear. It’ll a fairly low-pressure day overall; the whole thing is so last-minute there’ll just be a potluck party after the ceremony, nothing formal. But still he’s feeling a bit wrong-footed, unused to big families.

Edward and Alphonse Elric, on the other hand, are perfectly at ease around this yellow-haired country clan, their own accent rising a little more with every minute; they josh around with Havoc’s brothers and father like they’ve known them for years then inexplicably steal a silver fork from the cutlery shelves and abscond in a corner of the general store. After fifteen minutes of muttering Edward looks up and beckons Havoc and Breda over.

“C’mere.” He’s got that shark grin Breda’s learned to fear. “We’ve got a wedding present for ya.”

“We just need you to sign a piece of paper, Edward,” Breda says flatly, but he comes closer.

Havoc detaches himself from his brothers and crosses the room to join him. He only needs one crutch anymore, under his right arm. “Hey. Everything okay? I know my family can be a bit…”

“Your family’s fine,” Breda says firmly. “Your mother loves me. I let her know you weren’t dead.”

“That’s right.” He grins. “So—what’s going on with the Elrics?”

“I’m afraid we’re about to find out.”

Edward unrolls a large piece of paper as they approach. On it he’s traced a formidably complex array—what makes it even more impressive is that he hasn’t needed to draw one in years, but he can still call on those skills on a whim. In the middle he places the silver fork.

“Are you gifting me cutlery from my own family’s store?” Havoc asks.

Edward ignores him and presses his hand on the array, which crackles high. The fork melts and reassembles itself into two perfect silver rings.

Breda blinks—it’s a genuinely thoughtful gift—then frowns when he spots alchemical symbols engraved on the inside. An array that produces an object with another, pre-drawn array onto it is unprecedented as far as he knows. Edward lifts a finger, then activates one of the rings; it promptly unwraps and expands itself with a honeycomb structure into a perfectly chiseled stiletto knife.

“That was Ed’s idea,” Alphonse says, somewhat apologetically.

“Oh, shut up, you came up with half of the math.” There are tiny symbols wrapping around the knife’s handle. Edward activates them and it packs itself right back around into a ring. “There! Figured you might appreciate something that’s actually useful.”

Breda’s first impulse is to say that this is the most ridiculous object he’s ever seen and the fact that it’s the product of a casual state-level alchemical breakthrough makes it even _more_ ridiculous. But it really is useful. And incredibly complex, and probably priceless.

“Thanks, Edward,” he says, picking up one of the rings.

“All the math you need to activate them yourself is right here,” Edward answers airily, handing him a folded paper. “It’s pretty simple, really. The self-replicating mirror arrays were the hard part and you don’t need to bother with those.”

“So you’re gifting me my own cutlery _and_ a math lesson,” Havoc comments. “Thanks so much.”

Edward waves that away. “Okay, now we should get a move on—Alphonse and I have a train to catch. Come on!”

Havoc watches him go away, then looks at Breda. “That kid used to be our superior officer.”

“And the country was saved.” Breda puts the rings in his pocket, smiling. He knows they’ll fit perfectly. “He’s right, we should get a move on.”

The ceremony in itself is quick and plain; the Havoc family plus a few friends and neighbors pack themselves into the village hall, and the Elrics sign the requisite documents almost without paying attention, too busy laughing at a joke from one of the cousins. There’s no particular ceremonial, just a fairly monotone speech from a series of clerks, plus Havoc’s fingers lacing with Breda’s under the table when it’s time to repeat after the mayor.

*

After the wedding, Alice Havoc grabs Breda’s arm and says, “Come with me, Heymans.”

Breda almost thought he would be left alone, which he would have been fine with. He glances over his shoulder at Havoc, whose answering shrug makes it clear that he’s on his own.

“Can you drive?” she asks while maneuvering him out of the door.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Alice. The Season’s Market is almost over. We _do_ need to buy something nice for dinner tonight.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account…”

She gives him a look. “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s my son’s wedding.”

And she probably expected something very different for her middle child. Breda decides to change the subject. “I used to love the Season’s Market when I was a kid. Haven’t been in ages.”

“That’s _right!_ You’re an eastern boy too.” She pats his arm as if that makes him the ideal son-in-law. “We can get to know each other.”

On the way to the market, Alice tells him everything there is to know about the Havoc family and says that it’s just possible she might loathe Roy Mustang. Of course she realizes her son’s headed for a brilliant career that he’s earned and deserves, but she doesn’t appreciate the idea of his commanding officer wrecking his life so thoroughly and still expecting more in return. Breda, who knows better than to engage in a genuine debate with his mother-in-law on his wedding day, leaves Mustang to fend for himself and only points out that he won’t be Havoc’s CO anymore, which seems to satisfy her.

As they get out of the car, she takes his arm again and says conspiratorially, “I knew you were in love with my son the moment I saw you in that Central hospital.”

He doubts it, but it’s a nice thing to say. “Did you?”

“I could read it on your face. And Jean—I didn’t think he’d ever stop smoking for anyone.”

He doesn’t know how to answer that one. They’re getting close to the first stalls; even from afar the noise and color are just as he remembers.

“Couldn’t help but notice you’re still calling each other by your last names, though,” she adds.

“Force of habit, ma’am.”

She swats his arm. “I said call me Alice. Oh! Smoked mammoth, let’s get some. Would you be a dear and get me one of these wicker baskets they sell at every corner?”

“Of course.” He leaves her in the impressively long line and wanders off between the stalls, feeling slightly dizzy. It’s a gorgeous day, dry and hot this close to the desert. How long has it been since he last was at the Season’s Market? Before the civil war.

When he smells kayatef he first thinks it’s just his memories blending with the present. But then a kid passes running by, and when she turns around to call out to her friends, Breda sees a flash of red eyes and white hair.

As he keeps walking the stalls turn red, white and tan, and he finds himself walking around the Ishbalan Market like he never went away. It’s very modest, of course, the cloth of the tents threadbare, and there are much fewer people in those aisles, wariness still firmly present on both sides. But it’s there, and the military police walking around the market aren’t looking for an excuse to throw the Ishbalans out: they’re here to protect them. Breda folds his jacket over his arm and follows the smell of warm honey around the stalls.

He’s in the process of buying a bag of pastries to share with his husband when he looks up and sees a priest standing at the very end of the aisle, under a garland of golden chimes. His ochre robes and sash flap in the breeze, and when he shifts to talk to a pair of police officers his profile comes in full view.

Breda thanks the kayatef seller then walks towards the makeshift temple. The officers go away on their rounds. Scar turns his head and watches him approach.

“I remember you from East City,” he says when Breda comes up to him.

“Me too, _Hayal ha'Ishbal.”_

Scar stares at him.

“Aren’t you a warrior priest?” Breda asks. It’s what he remembers from his own files, but he hasn’t spoken Ishbalan in years, so it’s very possible he got it wrong. “Your sash…”

“I am.” Scar gives him a long look then says, “I suppose you will let Mustang know you saw me here.”

“If you give me your permission.”

Scar’s expression hardens by a fraction.

Breda meets his gaze squarely. “I followed him because we had a common goal. Wouldn’t make much sense for even loyalty to come before that.” He glances at the market around them, the kids playing in the aisles, then looks back to him. “You know?”

Slowly, the tension dissipates from Scar’s features. After a moment he inclines his head, though it doesn’t necessarily mean he believes Breda.

“That being said.” Breda takes out a pastry from his bag. “I’m going to be working for him all my life, and I do think letting him know would be the best option.”

Scar exhales slowly through his nose. In Ishbalan he says, _“You may tell him.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ Breda answers in kind.

Scar nods. Then he adds, “And make sure he knows it was that woman who got me out of Central. The Briggs general.”

Breda suppresses a smile and puts the pastry in the offerings plate, next to the candy someone left before him. Before he leaves he says, “My name’s Heymans Breda.”

You only introduce yourself at the end of a conversation in Ishbal, because names are sacred and offered as a gift. Scar doesn’t answer with his own name but nods again. Breda walks away without turning back, the bag of pastries warm against his chest. Birds zip through the ribbons of sky between the stalls. He still needs to find a wicker basket for Alice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _come cry with me in the comments about havoc and breda and all of mustang's squad_
> 
> I hope you've loved reading this fic at least half as much as I've loved writing it. A million thanks to all of you readers, and extra special thanks to all the commenters!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hero of Ishval](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399803) by [55anon (Anon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon/pseuds/55anon)
  * [Switching Channels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778112) by [AgTung_Alcremist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgTung_Alcremist/pseuds/AgTung_Alcremist)




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